I'm 72 and just realized why my grandchildren never call—here are 6 habits I thought were love but felt like control

Last week, I sat in my living room staring at my phone, realizing it had been three months since any of my grandchildren had called me. Not texted—called. The kind where I could hear their voices, their laughter, the background noise of their lives happening without me. That silence hit me like a physical weight, and for the first time, I had to ask myself the question I'd been avoiding: Was it something I'd done?

The answer, as it turns out, was yes. But not in the way I expected.

I spent the next few days reflecting on every interaction, every visit, every well-meaning gesture I'd made over the years. What emerged was a pattern I'd never seen before—behaviors I'd always considered expressions of love that my grandchildren might have experienced as something else entirely. The truth stung, but it also set me free.

1. Offering unsolicited advice about their life choices

For decades, I believed that sharing my wisdom was the greatest gift I could give my grandchildren. After all, I'd lived through more than they had—surely they'd benefit from my experience? Whether it was career advice for my 22-year-old granddaughter or suggestions about study habits for my teenage grandson, I always had something helpful to add.

What I didn't realize was how my constant stream of suggestions might have felt to them. Every piece of advice, no matter how gently delivered, carried an implicit message: "You're not doing it right." When my granddaughter started her first job, I peppered her with tips about office politics and professional dress. When she stopped sharing details about work, I assumed she was just busy. Now I wonder if she simply got tired of feeling like nothing she did was quite good enough.

The hardest part about recognizing this pattern is understanding that my grandchildren weren't asking for my advice. They were sharing their lives with me, and I turned every conversation into a teaching moment. No wonder they started sharing less.

2. Comparing them to their cousins or my friends' grandchildren

"Your cousin just got into medical school," I'd say, thinking I was sharing family news. "Mrs. Peterson's grandson just bought his first house at 25." In my mind, these were conversation starters, ways to stay connected to the broader family narrative. But looking back, I see how these comparisons created an invisible scoreboard that nobody asked to play on.

Each comparison, however innocent in my intent, probably felt like a judgment. When I mentioned how one grandchild was excelling in math, did the others hear that they weren't measuring up? When I praised one for calling me weekly, did the others feel guilty for their less frequent contact?

The irony is painful—in trying to celebrate family achievements, I may have made each grandchild feel like they were competing for my approval. That's the opposite of the unconditional love I wanted them to feel.

3. Insisting they visit on my schedule, not theirs

Sundays were sacred in our family—or at least, I wanted them to be. I'd plan elaborate dinners, expecting everyone to show up, and felt hurt when they had other commitments. "Family comes first," I'd remind them, not seeing the guilt I was layering onto their already complicated lives.

My grandchildren have jobs with unpredictable schedules, friends getting married on weekends, and their own need for rest and recovery time. But I measured their love by their attendance at my table, keeping a mental tally of who showed up and who didn't. When they did come, was it out of joy or obligation? The question haunts me now.

Virginia Woolf once wrote about the burden of family expectations, how they can suffocate even as they embrace. I think I understand that now. My rigid expectations about when and how we should gather may have turned family time from a refuge into another item on their already overwhelming to-do lists.

4. Using guilt as a conversation tool

"I guess you're too busy for your grandmother." "I probably won't be around much longer." "It would mean so much to me if you would just..."

These phrases flowed so naturally from my mouth that I never stopped to consider their weight. I thought I was expressing my feelings, being honest about my needs. But what I was really doing was making my grandchildren responsible for my emotional well-being.

Have you ever noticed how guilt creates distance rather than closeness? When someone feels guilty, they don't lean in—they pull away. Every time I reminded them how long it had been since they called, I probably made them less likely to pick up the phone. Who wants to call someone when you know the conversation will start with a reminder of your failures?

5. Dismissing their interests if they didn't align with mine

My youngest grandson loves video games. For years, when he'd try to tell me about his latest achievement or the friends he'd made online, I'd redirect the conversation to "more important things" like his grades or whether he was getting enough fresh air. I never learned the names of his favorite games or understood why they mattered to him.

Similarly, when my granddaughter became passionate about sustainable fashion, I dismissed it as a phase. "In my day, we just wore clothes until they wore out," I'd say, missing the entire point of her environmental concerns and her creativity in transforming thrift store finds.

By consistently showing disinterest in their passions, I sent a clear message: I loved them, but only the parts of them that made sense to me. Is it any wonder they stopped sharing the things that excited them most?

6. Making every conversation about me and my generation

No matter what story my grandchildren shared, I had a parallel tale from my own life or an observation about how things were different "back in my day." Their struggles with student loans became a lecture about how I worked my way through college. Their relationship challenges triggered stories about how their grandfather and I never would have tolerated such behavior.

I thought I was creating connections through shared experience. Instead, I was centering myself in every narrative, turning their moments into my memories. When did I stop listening to understand and start listening for openings to insert my own perspective?

Final thoughts

Recognizing these patterns hasn't been easy. At 72, admitting that behaviors I've practiced for decades might have pushed away the people I love most requires a kind of humility that doesn't come naturally. But here's what I've learned: love isn't just about intention—it's about impact.

I've started reaching out differently now. Short texts that require no response: "Thinking of you today." Questions about their interests with genuine curiosity behind them. Invitations with easy outs: "If you're free and it works for you..." The phone still doesn't ring as often as I'd like, but when it does, the conversations feel different—lighter, more genuine.

Change at any age is possible. I'm proof of that. And maybe, just maybe, by releasing my grip on how I thought family should work, I might actually get the closeness I've been craving all along.