The Walls We Build

Someone sent me pictures of my grandchild’s first formal school dance. A moment so precious, so short-lived—one that I will never get back. And it’s tearing me apart.

I understand that my adult child needs time to process that I didn't leave my marriage when they wanted me to. But time is not infinite. Time doesn’t wait for wounds to heal on its own, nor does it replace the moments lost. I pray that Abba places it on my grandchild’s heart to know how deeply I love them. That no matter what, they will never forget what they mean to me.

As for my adult child, I find myself caught between overwhelming sorrow and rising anger. I miss them—more than words can express. But how do I reconcile that longing with the pain of being shut out completely? It’s one thing to set boundaries, to create space—but to erase me entirely? No communication. No updates. Just silence.

It has been 11 months. Eleven months of aching. Eleven months of feeling like I’m being punished for something I couldn't control. Everyone, including Abba, knows that I would never intentionally hurt my grandchildren. My love for them is boundless. But I fear the damage with my child is becoming irreparable. This isn’t the first time they’ve shut me out. And each time, the distance grows longer and longer. Each time, the trust fractures a little more.

I don’t know if reconciliation is possible. Maybe it’s best to wait until my grandchildren are grown, so we can build our own relationship without interference. I pray—desperately—that my relationship with my child can be restored. But right now, I have walls around my heart. And when they do things like this, I only want to build them taller.

I don’t want to live behind walls. But I also don’t know how to keep breaking them down when every time I do, I’m left more wounded than before.

So today, I sit in the ache. I grieve the moments I am missing. And I pray.

For my grandchild to know my love.

For my child to find their way back.

For my heart to stay open, even when all it wants to do is close.