AITA for “moving on” from my daughter’s death when my wife says I should mourn forever?

My 18-year-old daughter passed away after 12 years of fighting cancer. I will love her until the day I die — but my wife says I’m a horrible father for beginning to heal, and it’s tearing us apart.

I’m 55M, and my youngest daughter passed away in 2023 at just 18. She had fought cancer for 12 long years. She beat it three times — rang the bell, celebrated, dreamed — but the fourth time it came back, it was too strong. She passed two weeks later. I found her the morning it happened. She didn’t wake up. I collapsed on top of her body and screamed for my wife. It was the worst moment of my life. I would trade places with her in a heartbeat. She was an explorer, a smiling fighter even in pain. Make-a-Wish sent her on three vacations, and we tried to fill her life with travel and joy. Her friends adored her, made a club in her memory, kept her spirit alive. My wife is still shattered. She visits our daughter's grave multiple times a week. I do too, just not as often. Lately, I’ve been trying to keep going — not forgetting her, never that — but just living enough to survive. My wife is furious about this. She says I’m “moving on” and that it means I didn’t love our daughter the way she did.

I told her I still love our daughter more than anything — but she says a good father mourns for the rest of his life.

Last night it turned into a huge fight. She told me I didn’t love our daughter. I told her that’s insane — I’d give up my life to have her back. She said I should mourn for the rest of my life. She called me a horrible father. I told her I can’t live in pain every single day and that it won’t bring our daughter back. Things escalated. She said things that cut me so deeply I asked her to stay with her parents for the night. She went. She’s still there. And now I’m sitting here replaying her words in my head, wondering if trying to move forward makes me a monster. I still visit our daughter’s grave, but not constantly. I still love her fiercely. I still cry. But I also believe she wouldn’t want me drowning in grief forever. My wife doesn’t see it that way.

"Should I mourn for the rest of my life?" — "Yes. You should."

I’m trying to survive. My wife is trying to hold onto our daughter with everything she has left. And instead of grieving together, we’re breaking apart. I don’t know if starting to heal makes me the asshole — or if grief just looks different on each of us.

"I’d give up my life to bring her back — but I can’t live every day stuck in the moment she died."

I miss my daughter every single day, but I don’t know how to carry both her memory and my marriage at the same time.

🏠 The Aftermath

My wife is at her parents’ house, and we haven’t spoken since the argument. The house is quiet in a way that feels wrong — like something is missing twice over. I can still picture my daughter’s smile, her bravery, the way she fought so hard to stay alive. She wouldn’t want us destroying ourselves in her name.

But my wife can’t accept my way of grieving. She visits the grave constantly and says any sign of healing means betrayal. The more I try to stand up and breathe again, the more she sees it as abandonment. Now she thinks I don’t love our daughter. And that’s the wound that hurts the most.

The consequences are heavy: distance from my wife, guilt I don’t deserve, and a fear that grief will take both of us if we don’t learn how to live with it instead of letting it consume us.

"It feels like grief took my daughter — and now it’s trying to take my wife too."

I want to honor my daughter and still move forward. I just don’t know how to get my wife to see that healing isn’t forgetting — it’s surviving.

💭 Emotional Reflection

There is no right way to grieve a child. Your wife is clinging to your daughter because letting go — even slightly — feels like losing her all over again. Her pain is raw, consuming, and blinding. But grief that becomes a cage can destroy the living.

You haven’t “moved on.” You’ve simply begun to breathe again. That’s not betrayal. That’s survival. You carry your daughter differently, but you still carry her. Your wife carries her through pain. You carry her through memory. Both are love.

Your grief isn’t smaller. It’s just quieter. And quiet grief is still grief.

Here’s how the community might see it:

“Grief isn’t a competition. Healing isn’t betrayal.”

“Your wife needs support, not someone to drown with her.”

“Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting your daughter. It means honoring her by living.”

Most responses would recognize your pain and your wife’s — and how grief can twist love into blame.

🌱 Final Thoughts

You’re not an asshole for trying to heal. You’re a grieving father doing your best to stay afloat. Your daughter lived bravely — and she would want that same bravery from you now.

Your wife isn’t your enemy. She’s lost, drowning in grief, and terrified of letting go. Therapy — together and individually — may be the only way forward.

What do you think?
Would you keep trying to reach your spouse, or step back until she’s ready to heal with you? Share your thoughts below 👇