Dad, Still Here — an open door with light behind it Subscribe
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An open door onto morning light, a coffee cup and a handwritten letter on a kitchen table
Stories for the ones still waiting

When the relationship disappears, leave the door open.

Letters, stories, and honest reflection for anyone living with parental alienation or estrangement — from both sides of the silence.

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The way through, in five rooms
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Six doors. Open whichever one you can manage today.

Nothing here asks you to be further along than you are.

A handwritten letter to an estranged child on a kitchen table beside an open door at sunrise
From the "Dear Child" letters — written, kept, sometimes never sent.

"No matter where you are, or how much time goes by, my love for you never changes. I'm still here. Today, tomorrow, and every day after that."

— Letter no. 1, read on the channel
Read the letters
Why it's called "still here"

The ordinary days you'd give anything to have again.

Nobody photographs the silence. They photograph this — a Saturday, a shoreline, a hand held for as long as it's offered.

A father and his youngest standing at the edge of the surf, hand in hand, as the foam runs over their feet
He wouldn't step into the water without holding on. That's the whole job — be the hand that's there when the cold comes in.
Four children on the sand — one drawing, one digging, one collecting stones — while their father walks the shoreline with the youngest
Four of them, all busy with nothing in particular. No occasion, no photographs planned. It turned out to be the kind of morning you replay for years.
A sandcastle taking shape on the beach while a father steadies his toddler in the shallow water nearby
Sandcastles behind, waves in front, everyone within arm's reach. This is the "still here" the channel is named for.
The quiet questions

The things you'd only ask at 2am.

Search the ones we've been asked most.

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Nothing matches that yet. Send us the question — the ones we hear twice become episodes.

One letter a week. Nothing else.

A story, a reflection, sometimes just a line that got someone through a hard night.

Thank you. The next letter comes Sunday.
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Our story

A place to remember. A place to write. A place to leave the door open.

Dad, Still Here is a space for parents who've become strangers to their own kids, and for adult children finding their way back to a parent they lost touch with.

Every story here — including the letters and the Father's own journey — is a composite, built from real, common patterns, with names and identifying details changed to protect every family involved.

New stories every week. If you're going through this — you're not the only one still here.

This isn't therapy and it isn't legal advice. It's company for the wait. If you need support, please reach out to a licensed professional.

What we promise

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Where your words go

KindWho can see itKept where
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Moments

Watch, read, and sit with it.

Three pillars, one door each. New stories every week on YouTube.

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One entry a day, whatever the day was.

Written live, kept forever. Newest first.

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Pillar: My Story · Episode 1

The Day I Became a Stranger

First published on dadstillhere.com · 6 minute read · Also on YouTube

Episode 1 of the Dad, Still Here series. The written version below stands on its own.

There's a version of me that still doesn't believe it happened. That thinks if I just show up at the right door at the right time, someone will open it.

It didn't happen in one day. Nobody tells you that part. There was no fight, no slammed door, no single moment I can point to and say — there, that's where I lost them.

It happened in a hundred small absences. A phone that stopped ringing. A birthday I found out about from a photo online. A voicemail that got shorter every time, until it stopped altogether.

I used to think losing your kid to alienation meant someone was cruel to your face. Nobody warned me it could look like silence. Like distance dressed up as "giving them space." Like being erased so slowly you don't notice you're gone until you look for yourself in the room and you're not there.

If you're reading this and you know exactly what I mean — I won't tell you it gets easy. I'll tell you something truer: it gets survivable. Some days you'll even forget, for an hour, that it's there.

You are not the only one still here.

Watch the full episode Share your story

Where to go for more than one father's opinion

Everything here is experience, not therapy. These are the places we send people.

Keep reading
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The spoken version lives on the channel. The written one is below — it stands on its own.

Watch on the channel

Photographs on this site are our own. No one else's child ever appears here.

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Where to go for more than one father's opinion

Everything here is experience, not therapy. These are the places we send people.

Keep reading

One letter a week. Nothing else.

A story, a reflection, sometimes just a line that got someone through a hard night.
Resources

Answers for the searches people make at midnight.

Pillar guide

Parental estrangement: the complete field guide

Everything we've learned about the silence — what causes it, what helps, what makes it worse — is being written up as one long read. Until it's finished, the short answers below are the honest version.

Start with the quiet questions

The long guide is being written. The short answers are already up.

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You are not alone

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Guidelines, privacy, and how this place is moderated.

Plain language, because everyone who writes to us is already handling enough. If anything here is unclear, email support@dadstillhere.com and ask.

Community guidelines

No naming. Don't identify your child, their other parent, a partner or a professional — not by name, workplace, school or town. We change identifying details before anything is published, and we'll return a story rather than publish one we can't safely anonymise.

Both sides read here. Adult children who left are welcome, and so are parents. Anything written to indict a specific person, rather than to describe your own experience, doesn't get published.

Not advice. Nothing on this site is therapy, legal advice or a substitute for either. If you are in crisis, contact your local emergency number or a crisis line in your country tonight, not us.

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How we moderate

Nothing auto-publishes. Every submission is read by a person: first a safety pass for risk to a child or to the writer, then an editorial pass for anonymity.

Published stories are composites. Details are changed and sometimes two similar accounts become one, so that no single family is identifiable in what you read.

Withdrawal is unconditional. Ask for a story to come down and it comes down, without a conversation about why.

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