Dear silent fathers,
I write to you with an open heart, as one of you. I know the weight of that silence: the loneliness of those who suffer a family injustice, the anguish of a father who is a victim of parental alienation or institutional violence. I know the emptiness whispered to the pillow at night, when the world outside ignores our tears. We have learned to suffer in silence—so as not to burden our children further, not to create more conflict, and because we often fear that no one really wants to hear our cry.
Every day, we move forward with forced smiles while carrying invisible wounds. How many of you have celebrated your child’s birthday from afar, leaving a gift by the door? How many of you have watched a school play from the back of the room, maybe in hiding, because your presence wasn’t welcome? And how many of you have returned home only to embrace the emptiness of a silent room, imagining the laughter you weren’t allowed to hear?
This is our silence: made of unspoken love, of arms left empty, of words that die in our throats.
Don’t get me wrong: I fully recognize the seriousness and urgency of violence against women. It is a terrible social scourge, and it must be fought relentlessly. Every woman who suffers abuse deserves protection, support, and justice. As fathers, as men, as human beings, we are the first to be outraged and to want it eradicated.
But I ask: is there truly no space in public discourse for our pain, too? Is acknowledging our suffering perceived as a threat to the suffering of women?
Society seems to have stopped seeing male victims and the pain of fathers as worthy of attention. Every time one of us dares to say “I am hurting too,” we are met with suspicion, as if we want to steal the spotlight or belittle someone else’s tragedy. But empathy is not a pie to be divided. Listening to our pain takes nothing away from the fight against violence toward women. Compassion does not diminish when it is shared—on the contrary, a society that listens to all victims is a more just and stronger society.
There are fathers who have had their children taken away on the basis of accusations later proven false—yet they never received a word of apology. There are fathers who fight in court every day for a few hours with their children, treated like guests in the lives of those they adore. Fathers who suffered psychological or physical abuse from a partner, but were told “a man can defend himself” when they sought help. Fathers portrayed as monsters, stripped of their dignity before ever being heard. And fathers who feel themselves dying slowly, when their children—manipulated against them—look at them with hatred or fear instead of the love they deserve.
The stories differ, but the thread is the same: a deep pain, hidden out of shame or fear, often silenced by indifference.
To you, silent fathers, I say: your suffering is real. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. You are not less of a man because you feel pain, nor less of a father if your children have been taken from your arms. The tears you shed in secret are not a sign of weakness, but of love—the same immense love that keeps you going, day after day.
I know how hard it is to break the silence. We’ve been taught that a “real man” shows no fragility, that we must grit our teeth and keep going. And you have done that. You do it every day. But there is no shame in asking for help, in saying “I too have been wronged.” The shame lies with those who caused you harm, or those who turned their backs.
You deserve to be heard without prejudice. You deserve understanding and respect.
I write this letter in the hope that someone, reading these lines, will begin to see you. That society will begin to see us: wounded fathers, men with broken hearts asking only for fairness and attention. We do not want to take anything away from anyone—we only wish to add our voices to a chorus that should include all victims of injustice. Because in a truly just society, no pain is ignored by default.
Dear companions on this painful path,
you are not alone.
I see you, I hear you, and I extend my hand to you—even if only through these words.
Let us continue to love our children, even from afar, even when we are prevented from being near them.
The love we feel is our strength: they may have obstructed it, but they will never extinguish it.
Hold on.
Your worth as fathers and as men does not depend on what others say about you, nor on a court ruling.
It lives in every denied embrace you still long to give, in every goodnight thought you send from miles away.
That deep bond—no one can erase it.