When you are estranged from a child, it creates a specific kind of grief that never really heals. It’s a "living loss," a wound that reopens every Christmas, every birthday, and every Father’s Day. My son, Michael, stormed out of the house thirty years ago after a bitter, shouting argument about money and life choices. We were both cursed with the same stubborn pride, and neither of us was willing to be the first one to pick up the phone. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into years, and years turned into decades. I had no idea where he lived, what he did for a living, or if he was even happy. I prayed for Michael every single night, kneeling by my bed, asking God to protect him and, if possible, to bring him home. But as I entered my seventies, my hope began to fade into a dull acceptance. I started to believe that I would die without ever hearing my son’s voice again. I stopped jumping every time the phone rang, assuming it was just a telemarketer or a wrong number. The silence in my life had become permanent.
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