The suffering of a father

I've been out of my daughter's life for ten months. Well, I see her for a few hours every now and then. But for a father who has been on parental leave for more than two years, it feels like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. My daughter is almost four years old and I love her very much. She loves me too. The separation came about because my wife and I argued a lot. A lot, too. I told her to leave; I took off for a few days. Yes, I made a lot of mistakes. That's why I blame myself and would like to change the past. But I can't put all the blame on myself either. We no longer understood each other.
I can still see my daughter in front of me. How she waved to me from the window when I went to work. How she cheered in the bathtub when we sang: «I have a crown and a castle where I live. I also have a big horse, and my prince is also praiseworthy. Lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-praiseworthy.» It would be so nice for our daughter if there could at least be a friendly relationship between her parents. I know that's important. But how should we go about it?

«But I want to stay her dad! I feel like I'm disappearing.»

Shortly after the separation, my wife was travelling with her daughter and her parents. «You can see her for an extra day afterwards,» she said. Three weeks turned into four weeks and I wasn't told when she would be back. The little girl was simply gone. After that, I had a precise plan for when and how long I would see my daughter. Twice a week at most. Not overnight. There was no more talk of me getting an extra day. I want to make the best of the situation. To be grateful that my daughter exists and that I have contact with her. A little, but still. I miss her so much. I constantly have images from the past in my head. How she sits on my back in the carrier while hiking through the woods and complains that I'm sweating. How she pulls my hair. How we crawl through the thicket together and collect mushrooms.

Normal everyday life with her daughter is missing

Apart from these moments, I miss the normal everyday life with her. I'm just an entertainer for a few hours. I want to have breakfast with her, cut her bread into small pieces. I want to brush her teeth. I want to read her a bedtime story and not have to drive her home when it gets dark. I miss the fact that I'm no longer part of her life. When she talks about her grandad, she accidentally says daddy. But I want to remain her dad! I feel like I'm disappearing. I'm sure I'll also miss the first time she rides her bike.
Now she's going to nursery school. I only hear about it in bits and pieces. I would love to know how she gets on with the other children. I once asked my wife via WhatsApp: «How is our daughter doing at nursery? What did she do today?» The answer: «The children played in the playground.» I also don't find out when the little one is ill and has to stay at home. Caring and comforting - it seems to be just the mother's job. Or is it her privilege?

«My ex saw the appointment with the youth welfare office as a declaration of war.»

Why can she alone decide how much I take care of the child and participate in its upbringing? Everyone talks about fathers on parental leave. Who reduce their workload to spend more time with their children. And so that their wives can return to work more easily. Sometimes I think: it's all rubbish. Many women don't want to hand over any responsibility to the father. Some people around me say: At least you see the little one regularly, think positively. A few hours a week, great. Quality time. Concentrate on your work, stick to a full-time job. The classic breadwinner thing. But most people think that a father shouldn't put up with it. Especially my close friends, who know how much my daughter is attached to me and how important it is for her that I stay present. I'm in a dilemma. I don't want to make things worse for our daughter and therefore often think I should just sit the situation out. Until it gets better. Will it? I'm afraid she'll become estranged.

My daughter keeps telling me on daddy days that I should read her another book. And another one. And that she doesn't want to go home yet. Once she threw herself defiantly onto the bed. That prompted me to call my wife.

«You, the little one would like to spend the night here.»

Daughter talks to mum. «I want to sleep here with my dad.»

Mum replies: «We're having dinner at home now.»

If the child is ill, Daddy's Day is cancelled.

I had been sleepless for weeks and had taken my first antidepressants when I asked for a clarification meeting at the youth welfare office. My ex saw the appointment with the office as a declaration of war. The woman from the office was reasonable. In the following month, I got to see my daughter a lot more. At the weekend, even several times on both days. As long as my ex-partner wasn't working, there was nothing wrong with that, said the caseworker. «That's too much,» said my ex, unenthusiastically. «There's no such thing as too much,» replied the woman from the office. The thing is: The separation would be fine for everyone - including our daughter - if we behaved moderately. The main thing is no more arguments.
Many families are like that. Why can't it be the case that my ex is happy when I can take my time? I work 100 per cent and every week I try to carve out an afternoon or at least two hours. Recently, I couldn't keep the 2pm appointment because of work. «You, it's going to be 3pm at my place.» Answer: «I have plans, then I'll take her with me.» I am shown at every opportunity that I have no rights or decision-making powers. If the little one is ill, daddy's day is cancelled. After all, she can't get better with me. If I'm ill, I cancel of my own accord. In both cases, there is no substitute time.

«Family court - I often thought about it at the beginning. But I haven't made up my mind yet.»

I've spoken to many men who are a few years older and have been through the same thing. They all say: You've got the A card. Forget it! It doesn't help that I've just changed jobs so that I don't live 200 kilometres away from my daughter, but just around the corner. And to be even closer to her, I'm moving again. Then I'll only live a few kilometres away and no longer 20. family court - I often thought about that at the beginning. But I haven't made up my mind yet. My wife and I have to find a sensible basis again at some point. Our daughter will remain our daughter, forever.

New strategy: Show presence

My new strategy is to show my presence. I'm in the neighbourhood. I signal to my daughter: Dad is there, you can come round any time. My hope is that at some point it will all sort itself out. At some point, everything will no longer be so terribly rigid. If she wants to, she can come. If I have time spontaneously, I can pick her up. But we're a long way from that. I once went to nursery school. My still-wife wanted to make an appointment with me in advance, she thought a spontaneous visit was inappropriate. I'm not allowed to take my daughter to nursery or pick her up. Because she «needs some peace and quiet» after nursery. There's so much that's new for her at nursery. And then dad too.
I can't put up with it any longer. Sometimes something like a fighting spirit comes through. In future, I'll just stand there - come what may. And if something as banal as picking up my daughter from nursery isn't possible, then I ask myself: when will I be able to go on holiday with my daughter? In five years for a long weekend perhaps? My wife and I have joint custody, but that's worth nothing. People who say otherwise have no idea.
Picture: fotolia.com

To the author

Adrian Hoffmann is 36 years old and a journalist. He lives in southern Germany. He is looking for contact with fathers who are in a similar situation, also to collect stories and prepare them for journalism - anonymously if you like. Anyone who is interested can contact him directly by e-mail at vaterleiden(at)gmx.de.

Read more on the topic of when separated parents cannot agree:

• Fabian Voegtlin, a family law attorney in Zurich, recommends that fathers only go to court as a last resort.