'I moved to be closer to my grandkids. Then my daughter sent one brutal message.'

"F*** off, Mum."

That text came through as I lay in bed in a motel room, sick with Covid and emotionally wrung out after a year spent promoting my latest book. I had just messaged my daughter to say I wasn't feeling well. This was her reply. I stared at the screen in disbelief, my body ached from fever, my heart pounding from shock. The grief didn't arrive all at once. It gathered slowly, like a storm cloud forming far out at sea.

I'd moved interstate three years earlier to be closer to my daughter, her partner and their two children. I believed I was making a positive choice—to be the involved grandparent I never had. For a while, things were good. Bushwalks. Sleepovers. Café dates. We shared meals, celebrated birthdays together.

But history has a way of catching up with us. My daughter and I have had a complicated relationship. She'd cut off contact with me twice before. Those estrangements only began after she met her partner. I sensed early on that he didn't like me. Over the years he has been sarcastic, sometimes cutting. When conflict erupted, he stepped in—and often fuelled it.

The rupture this time came in the aftermath of a bizarre and unlucky accident. While out cycling, a tyre flicked up a stone that hit her helmet. It gave her a fright, but she didn't fall and kept riding. A similar thing had happened to me, just the day before. It felt like an omen.

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Days later her dizziness worsened. I stepped in. I took her to appointments. Eventually, she was admitted to hospital for assessment. Over the week, she had extensive tests, including for concussion, but the doctors couldn't find anything physically wrong. There was no formal diagnosis at discharge. She'd asked me to collect her from the hospital, but her partner called abruptly to say he'd go instead.

After returning home, she spent several days in bed. Then, her local GP diagnosed her with post-concussion syndrome. I wasn't sure what to think. To me, it seemed like an emotional and physical collapse. Whatever it was, I tried to be there—but something had already begun to shift.

Then came the silence. The withdrawal. I asked if I could pop in to see her. Her partner sent a text: "This is not about you, so please don't make it about you."

That night, I had a panic attack.

It triggered everything: years of trying to be a good-enough mother, the guilt I carried, the shame I had long buried. I sent a message back, saying his coldness had caused a panic attack, that I was not coping. I had been considering cancelling my trip overseas. I didn't want to leave while my daughter was unwell.

Then my daughter's partner rang. I wept. He apologised. I thought things were sorted. And so, I flew abroad for a week.

Then came her text message from hell. No warning. No compassion.

"Mum, I can't play happy families. We are so angry about what happened and how you treated us. I can't believe you played the 'poor me' card at a time when we were in crisis…"

I was in a crisis too. I had Covid. I was alone in a foreign place. I tried to call her. She picked up, and I heard her partner screech in the background: "Put the phone down."

Then came the accusations: I made it all about me. I had an "outburst." I had no insight. I always make it about me. And worst of all: I couldn't see my grandchildren anymore.

The truth is, I was unwell myself—physically, mentally, emotionally. I had recently completed a massive project, and despite its awards and positive reviews, it had taken a toll.

When I returned home, I reacted with rage. I said things I regret. I told my daughter's partner I didn't want contact anymore. He replied:

"I have been really patient and tried to be as compassionate towards you as I can. I am curious that this is a common reoccurring theme with you and people in your life. I hope you are feeling better soon and then you can get the help you need."

In the weeks that followed, I tried to repair things. I offered to see a mediator. I expressed my desire to find peace. I acknowledged that I had carried resentments, that I'd relied too heavily on her emotionally, that I'd sometimes reacted badly under pressure. I was seeing a trauma therapist. I was doing the work.

Her response was devastating. I had made her illness about me. She saw my worry not as love but as intrusion. She resented me for sharing my own sadness when she was sad, too.

She had a point. I know I have shared too much with my children over the years. I've over-functioned, offered help, then carried resentment. I've tried to fix everything instead of simply being present. I was raised by a cold mother and grew up aching for connection. That longing shaped me, and often distorted the way I love. I overdo it.

But my daughter's letter also revealed something else: a desire to sever. "I won't be sharing personal details with you," she wrote. "Not about my children, partner, other family members or friends. It will all be superficial."

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My heart dropped reading those words. I had not only lost my daughter, I had lost my granddaughters too.

That was when I knew I had to leave.

I sold my house. I packed up and moved from South Australia back to Queensland, near my son and his wife, who have embraced me with kindness. I am slowly rebuilding my life.

A part of me is shattered. The silence from my daughter continues. I miss the girls terribly. I had been a constant presence in their lives. Now I am just a ghost. A grandmother in exile.

And still, I reflect. I take responsibility for my part. I go to therapy. I practise mindfulness. I grieve.

But I also know this: I was not the only one who made mistakes. I was not the only one who reacted out of fear or pain. What I experienced—being pushed away, blamed, accused, and ultimately cut off —was cruel. It was unkind. And it was undeserved.

Estrangement is a quiet epidemic. It is often cloaked in shame—especially for mothers. And it is more common than most people realise. It leaves you doubting your memory, your worth, your sanity. We're taught that if our adult children cut us off, we must have failed them. We must be the problem.

I see this dynamic more and more around me—adult children cutting off parents for perceived emotional harm, without any real attempt at repair. Therapy language is used to justify excommunication: "boundaries," "gaslighting," "toxic". There's little room for nuance. For history. For humanity.

The grief of losing your child is like no other. But the grief of being cut off from your grandchildren—when you were once an integral part of their lives—is a particular kind of heartbreak. There is no language for it. No rituals. No permission to mourn.

It can destroy you—or it can wake you up.

I'm choosing to wake up.

I now focus on the people who want me in their lives. I write. I walk. I rest. I've started to reclaim my life. I go to therapy.

But I hold space, quietly, in the hope that one day I will hear from my daughter again. That perhaps she will read through our many emails, reflect on her aggression towards me, and remember how I tried. That my granddaughters will grow up and come looking for me, wanting to know their story.

I will be here.

Feature Image: Getty.

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