My 75-Year-Old Dad Is Getting Married Next Week—And I Just Found Out

“But it’s not just about me anymore. My kids are watching. They’re old enough now to notice that Grandma is always around, always present, always there. But Grandpa? He’s barely a name in the background.”

A few days ago, I got a call from my uncle. We’re not in daily communication, so I knew something was up.

“Did you hear?” he asked, his voice dripping with the kind of juicy gossip that makes your stomach clench.

“Hear what?”

“Your dad is getting married. Next week.”

I actually laughed. Because what else do you do when you get hit with that level of ridiculousness? “To who?” I asked. “No idea. He hasn’t told anyone,” he replied.

Now, let’s be clear — I’m not mad that my 75-year-old father is getting married. He can do whatever he wants. But I am … confused. Because apparently, my sisters and I weren’t important enough to get a heads-up. A casual “Hey, by the way, I’m marrying someone new, just thought you should know,” would have been nice.

But it wasn’t surprising, really. This was just another thing to add to the long list of ways my dad has been emotionally unavailable my entire life. And yet, somehow, it still stings.

I used to think my dad was a hero

Here’s the thing: when I was little, I thought my dad was the best. He was fun. He took us to sporting events, played with us and made us laugh. He was the kind of dad who made childhood exciting.

And for a long time, I didn’t understand why my mom hated him so much. Why she always seemed angry. Why their fights were never-ending.

I didn’t get it–until I got older. Until I realised he had cheated on her. Until I realised he never helped with the bills, never provided and never actually took care of us.

Until I heard the story of how, after my mom gave birth to my sister, he just … left her at the hospital. Because he “didn’t have the money to pay the bill.” She had to call a family friend for help — while she was still recovering from, you know, childbirth.

Until I realised my mom had shouldered everything—raising us, supporting us, making sure we had what we needed—while he acted like his job as a father was done the moment he showed up for a fun day out.

As I grew up, my childhood hero started looking a lot less like a superhero and a lot more like a guy in a cheap costume.

How do you love a parent who never truly cared?

As I got older, my relationship with my dad became more distant. My sisters felt the same way. We weren’t estranged, but we weren’t close either. He was just … there. A shadow in the background of our lives.

When I became a mother myself, I made an effort. I invited him to see his grandchildren, I sent him photos, I tried to bridge the gap, tried to make room for him in our lives. But he never showed any real interest. He always had better things to do. Friends to see, activities to go to and plans that didn’t involve his family.

I eventually realised he was the same man he had always been—just older. And somehow, despite all his mistakes, he still thought he had done his best. The man who believes that showing up to an occasional dinner can make up for years of selfishness.

So, about this wedding…

The news of his wedding shouldn’t shock me. But it does.
It isn’t the fact that he’s remarrying—his life, his decision. It’s the fact that he hasn’t even told his own daughters. Not a text. Not a call.

Was he just never going to tell us? Were we supposed to find out later through some blurry Facebook wedding photo captioned “Happiest day of my life!” with strangers commenting congratulations?

I don’t care about being invited. I care about the fact that it clearly never even crossed his mind to let his own daughters know. And honestly? That just confirms what I’ve always known: We were never a priority to him.

The guilt and the cultural baggage

Here’s where it gets even messier. Because even though I know all this, I still feel guilty.

Am I a bad daughter? Should I have tried harder? Should I have called him more, visited more, swallowed my resentment and just accepted him for who he was? Because in the culture I grew up in, you’re supposed to take care of your parents, no matter what.

Even if they were absent.
Even if they were selfish.
Even if they never took care of you.

And that thought sits heavy on me. One day, he will be very old and helpless. One day, I might get a call saying he’s sick, and struggling, and I’ll have to decide: How do I take care of the man who never took care of me? And honestly? I don’t know what I’ll do.

But it’s not just about me anymore. My kids are watching. They’re old enough now to notice that Grandma is always around, always present, always there. But Grandpa? He’s barely a name in the background.

One day, they might ask me, Why? What will I tell them? That he didn’t care, so I stopped caring too? That he never showed up, so I didn’t either? I worry that I’m teaching them something I don’t want to: that it’s okay to cut off family when things are hard. That it’s okay to walk away. Or worse — what if they think that they can do the same to me when I’m old?

And yet, I also know that some relationships should be left behind. That being someone’s child doesn’t mean being their caretaker. I think about the possibility of my father dying alone in his home, unknown to anyone until the police call.

And I ask myself—what will I feel when that day comes? Sadness? Relief? Nothing at all?

I don’t have the answer.

All I know is that, as I hold my kids at night and tell them that family matters, a part of me wonders: What kind of mother am I if I can’t even believe my own words?

So, now what?

I don’t think I’ll bring up the wedding to him. Maybe I should send him a random message—just to see if he’ll ever actually tell me.

But honestly? I’m exhausted. Exhausted from trying. Exhausted from hoping he’ll be different. Exhausted from wanting something from him that he has never been capable of giving.

Maybe this is just who he is. Maybe I need to finally, truly accept that. And maybe, just maybe, I need to stop expecting anything from a man who never gave much in the first place.
So, congrats, Dad. Hope the wedding is great. Hope the new wife brings him the happiness he could never find elsewhere. And hope — at the very least — this new chapter gives him what he’s been searching for.

Read more Mama confessions:
– How my SA experience made me teach my kids that their voices always matter
– My relationship with my mother made me hesitant to have kids
– “Do I tell my dad? Do I run away? What if I get beaten up?” – former Teen Mum