Loving from a distance.
My daughter and I had always shared a special connection. We were often mentally aligned. Somehow, we seemed to know what was happening in each other's lives without needing many words.
After graduating high school, she moved to France. As a mother, I was proud, worried, and excited for her. Letting our children go out into the world is one of the hardest things we do, but I wanted her to build a life that made her happy.
And she did.
Over the years, she came home to visit. Her trips were always special. She would spend time with family and friends before returning to the life she had created.
Her last visit was in December and January of 2023/2024. She was supposed to stay for six weeks, but by the end of December, she was ready to return home, so we changed her flight.
She had fallen in love.
I was happy for her. I wanted her to have love and happiness.
Like many mothers, I also worried. I wanted her to take her time and make sure she was making choices that were right for her.
After she returned to France, we both went back to our lives.
I sent her a message asking how she was doing.
She replied that she was fine and busy moving.
For some reason, I didn't reply.
I don't know why.
Maybe I assumed we would talk later.
Maybe I didn't realize that something had changed.
A few weeks later, I had surgery.
And I didn't hear from her.
At first, I tried to convince myself that everything was okay. Life gets busy. People get distracted.
But the days turned into weeks.
I started checking my phone constantly.
I worried.
I wondered if she was okay.
I wondered if she was safe.
The hardest part was not just that she wasn't replying to me.
She wasn't even reading my messages.
By spring, I knew something was wrong.
I talked to my sisters.
I talked to my other daughter.
I felt hurt, confused, angry, and completely heartbroken.
I didn't understand what had happened.
I found myself searching for answers.
What had I done?
What had I said?
What could I fix if only I knew what was wrong?
Then I learned about her engagement.
Not from her.
My sister Nancy had been looking at her social media and told me.
I was happy that she had found love. I wanted her to be happy.
But my heart broke knowing that such an important moment in her life had happened without me.
A few months later, I learned she had gotten married in a civil ceremony.
Not from her.
From a Facebook post her partner had shared.
I sat there looking at someone else's announcement of one of the biggest moments in my daughter's life, and I felt like a stranger looking in.
Still, I reached out.
I congratulated her.
I made sure the rest of the family congratulated her.
Because despite everything, she was still my daughter.
And I loved her.
Eventually, I realized I needed to take care of myself.
I went to my doctor and said, "I think I'm depressed."
Then I told her everything that had happened.
The heartbreak had become physical.
It felt like there was a knife twisting in my stomach and an ache in my heart that wouldn't go away.
Thankfully, I still had a job with flexibility, which allowed me to keep going. But emotionally, I was struggling.
What kept me moving forward was my other children.
I needed to be there for them.
I needed to show them that even when life breaks your heart, you can keep going.
Then, more than a year into the estrangement, my sister Barbara died.
Losing Barbara was devastating.
She was one of my closest confidants. She was someone I could talk to about anything. Losing her created a hole in my life that will never fully close.
I messaged my children to tell them the news.
I called my son first.
I called my other daughter when she was on her lunch break.
I also messaged my daughter who I had been estranged from.
When I didn't hear back, it hurt deeply.
I was already carrying the pain of feeling like I had lost my daughter.
Now I was grieving my sister.
After several days, I reached a breaking point.
I sent an angry message.
I was hurting. I was grieving. I couldn't understand how she could not acknowledge such a significant loss.
Later, I learned that my sister Nancy had told my daughter about Barbara's death before I had the chance to.
My daughter believed I hadn't told her.
She was hurt.
I believed she had ignored my message.
I was hurt.
It became a painful misunderstanding, filled with hurt feelings and assumptions on both sides.
I felt that something deeply personal had been taken away from me.
After that, I withdrew.
I was angry and hurt.
I stopped talking to Nancy.
I pulled away from people.
I didn't want to explain how I was feeling anymore.
I just needed space to process everything I was carrying.
I still feel sadness.
I still don't understand.
I still have moments when my heart aches.
But I also have hope.
Not the kind of hope that keeps me waiting for someone else to change before I move forward.
A quieter kind of hope.
The kind that allows me to continue living my life while leaving the door open.
If she is ever ready, she will find love waiting for her.
Because she is my daughter.
And love doesn't always disappear when a relationship changes.
Sometimes love learns how to exist from a distance.
A thought to take with you
Have you ever had to learn how to love someone while also giving them—and yourself—space?
What does leaving the door open without putting your life on hold look like for you?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.
Share Your Thoughts →