My daughter went off to New Zealand when she was 17. She had broken up with her kiwi boyfriend who had flown home from the UK as a result, and then she had terribly regretted it. It was probably the hardest thing I have ever done in my life to watch her walk through the gate at Heathrow, knowing in my heart that she would never return to the UK to live and would probably make a young marriage that would go pear-shaped. I was, incidentally, right on both counts, but a lovely son, now 15. also happened.
In between times, I cared for an increasingly frail mother in my home who eventually died at the age of 92. I witnessed the final illnesses and deaths of many I loved and was abandoned by my sister (as was my daughter).
Meanwhile, absentdaughter divorced her husband – a process involving many late-at-night conversations with me – and later re-married. She had more babies and I visited or paid for her and some family members to visit me as often as practical.
Yes – I missed her. Did I regret letting her go? No, never. I taught her to fly so why would I clip her wings? She established a wonderful life which continues to be glorious. Did we stop being close? Did we hell? My friends used to joke that you couldn't push a cigarette paper between our closeness however many thousand miles apart we lived.
It happens that I have been able to emigrate to NZ, although only with the support of absentdaughter and my son-in-law. (I'm too old to be considered other than as a family member.) I love being here, but if I hadn't been able to move here – and it was touch and go because of Mr absent's boring health issues – I would still have been a major part of my daughter's life, my son-in-law's life and the lives of my grandchildren and they would all have been a major part of mine. The connections go back to when she was born, the ties are historical and the love is forever.
Always avoid self-pity.