Will I Be Told About My Grandads Funeral

I do not think anyone should get to decide, quietly and on my behalf, whether I am allowed to grieve.

That is what this has come down to for me.

My grandad died on Tuesday, and I was not told. I found out without the basic courtesy that most people would expect from family. Now I am left asking the next painful question: will I be told about my grandad’s funeral?

Part of me already thinks I know the answer. If I was not told he had died, why would I suddenly be told when the funeral is? Why would the same people who left me out of one of the biggest pieces of news suddenly decide I deserved to know the date, the time, the place, or even the chance to stand at the back and say goodbye?

But another part of me is still sitting with the question, because this is not only about a funeral. It is about family, rejection, memories, pride, hurt, and the right to make my own choice.

Not being told hurts. Being excluded from grief hurts. And being put in a position where I may need to chase information about my own grandad’s funeral feels humiliating in a way I cannot quite explain.

I should be told, even if I decide not to go

The biggest point for me is simple: being told is not the same as attending.

I might decide not to go. I might decide that being in that room would be too painful, too tense, too much. I might decide that protecting my own peace matters more than putting myself in front of people who have made it clear they do not want me around.

But that should be my decision.

If there is a funeral for my grandad, I should be told about it. I should be given the information, then trusted to make up my own mind. That is basic decency. That is not asking for special treatment. That is not asking for drama. That is asking to be treated like someone who existed in his life, even if only in the past.

I may not have seen my grandad for many years, but I still have memories of him from when I was a child. Those memories do not vanish because other people have decided I no longer fit into the family picture. Childhood memories are still real. Love that existed once is still real. A bond does not become meaningless just because distance, conflict, and pain came later.

That is what makes this so difficult. People can act as if I have no place there, but they cannot erase the fact that I had a relationship with him once. They cannot remove my memories.

The question is not just whether I would attend

When I ask myself whether I would go, the answer is not easy.

Would I want to be around my dad’s side of the family? Would I want to stand in the same room as people who have disowned me, ignored me, removed me, or made me feel like I am a problem they would rather not deal with?

My dad would likely be there with his new family. The woman he got pregnant while he was still married to my mum may be there. His children, who I have never met, may be there too. My nan, who tried to send me to gay conversion therapy, may be there. So might the relatives who removed me from Facebook, one by one, like I was something embarrassing to clear away.

That is not a small thing to walk into.

A funeral is already emotional. It puts people on edge. It stirs up grief, regret, guilt, and old wounds. For someone like me, it would not only be a funeral. It would be a room full of history I did not ask for, and people who have already shown me where I stand.

So would I want to attend? I honestly do not know.

There is a version of me that thinks I should go, because I have the right to pay my respects. There is another version of me that thinks I would be walking straight into a situation where I would feel small, unwelcome, and judged.

Both feelings are true.

Courtesy matters when families break apart

When families fall out, some people seem to think basic courtesy no longer applies.

They think, “We do not speak to them, so we do not need to tell them.” They think silence is easier. They think exclusion avoids awkwardness. They may even convince themselves they are protecting the day from tension.

But a death in the family is different.

When someone dies, information should not be used as a gatekeeping tool. A funeral is not a private club where only the approved people get the details. It is a chance for people to say goodbye, even from a distance, even quietly, even if relationships are strained.

I am not saying everyone has to welcome me with open arms. I am not saying people have to pretend nothing happened. I am not saying grief magically fixes years of hurt.

I am saying that telling me would be the right thing to do.

A short message would be enough. It would not need to be warm. It would not need to be emotional. It could be as simple as:

“The funeral is on this date, at this time, at this place. We thought you should know.”

That is all.

No performance. No fake closeness. No pretending we are suddenly one big happy family. Just the minimum level of respect.

Being excluded from grief is its own kind of pain

There is a strange kind of grief that comes when someone dies and you are not told.

It is not only grief for the person. It is grief for the relationship you had, the relationship you lost, and the family you realise you may never truly have again.

Finding out late, or through someone else, makes you feel like an outsider to your own life. It makes you question your place. It makes you wonder how many conversations happened without you, how many decisions were made without a second thought, how easy it was for people to leave your name out.

That is the part I keep coming back to.

Not being told about his death was painful enough. Now I am bracing myself for not being told about the funeral either. I am preparing for another silence. Another reminder that, to some people, I do not count.

And yet, I did count once.

I was a child with a grandad. I have fond memories. I remember parts of him that matter to me. Those memories belong to me, not to the family members who have chosen to shut me out.

I can protect myself and still want to be informed

Some people might say, “If they have treated you that badly, why would you even want to know?”

I understand that question. I have asked it myself.

Why would I want to open the door to that pain? Why would I want to place myself anywhere near people who have not shown care, respect, or acceptance? Why would I want to risk feeling rejected all over again?

The answer is that wanting to be told does not mean I want to be close to them.

It means I want the choice.

There is a difference between choosing not to attend and being excluded before I can decide. One is self-protection. The other is being erased.

I am allowed to want information without wanting reunion. I am allowed to care about my grandad without wanting to sit beside people who have hurt me. I am allowed to grieve in a way that keeps me safe.

That may mean attending the funeral. It may mean staying away and marking the day privately. It may mean lighting a candle, writing something down, visiting a place that reminds me of him, or simply taking time to sit with the memories.

The point is, I should be the one to choose.

A funeral should not become a family power move

This is where my opinion becomes very clear.

No one should use funeral information as a way to punish, exclude, or control someone else’s grief.

If there are safety concerns, that is one thing. If someone has been abusive or threatening, boundaries may be needed. But being estranged, being disliked, or being seen as inconvenient should not automatically mean being kept in the dark.

Funerals are already hard enough. They do not need extra layers of family politics.

When relatives decide who is “allowed” to know, they take on a role they were never meant to have. They turn grief into a hierarchy. They decide whose sadness is valid and whose is not. They act as if family belonging is something they alone can grant or remove.

That is what I find so painful.

I am not asking to take over the day. I am not asking to make anything about me. I am not asking anyone to comfort me. I am asking for the chance to decide whether I want to say goodbye.

That should not be controversial.

The counterargument is that funerals are for the closest people

I can already hear the argument from the other side.

They might say I had not seen him for years. They might say other people were closer to him. They might say the funeral is for those who were present towards the end of his life. They might say telling me would create tension.

There may be truth in some of that.

I was not close to him in recent years. I cannot pretend I was part of his day-to-day life. Other people may have done more, known more, cared for him more, or carried more responsibility.

I can accept that.

But funerals are not only for the people who were closest at the end. They are also for people who hold memories, history, and connection. Sometimes those connections are complicated. Sometimes they are old. Sometimes they are painful. That does not make them false.

If the worry is drama, then the respectful thing would still be to inform me and let me decide. I am capable of attending quietly. I am also capable of choosing not to attend if I know it would not be right for me.

Keeping me uninformed does not prevent pain. It creates a different kind of pain.

What I think I would need if I did go

If I were told and I chose to attend, I think I would need boundaries.

I would need to remind myself that I would be there for my grandad, not for a family reunion. I would not owe anyone a conversation. I would not need to explain my life, my feelings, or my existence. I would not need to make peace with people who have not made peace with me.

I could arrive, pay my respects, and leave.

That sounds simple, but emotionally it would be huge.

I would probably need support before and after. I might need someone to know where I was going. I might need to plan how I would leave if it became too much. I might need to accept that even if I handled it well, it could still hurt for days afterwards.

That is why the decision matters. It is not a casual choice. It is not just “go or don’t go”. It is about weighing grief against self-protection.

If I am not told, I will still find my own way to say goodbye

The hardest thing to accept is that I may never be told.

No message may come. No one may reach out. The funeral may happen, and I may only find out afterwards, if at all. I may be left with the same silence that followed his death.

If that happens, I will have to find another way.

That might not feel fair, because it is not fair. But grief does not always arrive with fairness. Sometimes you have to create your own goodbye when other people deny you the chance to take part in the public one.

I can still honour the memories I have. I can still remember the grandad I knew as a child. I can still feel sadness. I can still be angry. I can still say, in my own way, that his life meant something to me.

No one can stop that.

They may be able to keep a date from me. They may be able to keep a place from me. They may be able to leave my name out of a message thread.

But they cannot own my grief.

Frequently Asked Questions

Should estranged family members be told about a funeral?

In most cases, yes. Being estranged does not automatically mean someone should be kept in the dark. They can be told the details and then decide for themselves whether attending is right.

Is it wrong to attend a funeral if you were not close to the person in recent years?

No. People attend funerals for many reasons, including childhood memories, family history, and personal closure. Distance in recent years does not erase the connection that existed before.

What if attending would mean seeing people who hurt you?

Then boundaries matter. It is okay to choose not to attend if it would damage your wellbeing. You can still grieve privately and find your own way to say goodbye.

Can you pay respects without going to the funeral?

Yes. You can light a candle, write a letter, visit a meaningful place, look through old memories, or take time on the day to reflect. Private grief is still real grief.

Is wanting to be told the same as wanting contact with the family?

No. Wanting basic information is not the same as wanting a relationship. You can want the courtesy of being told while still keeping distance from people who have hurt you.

I deserve the choice

So, will I be told about my grandad’s funeral?

I do not know.

Part of me expects silence. Part of me hopes someone will do the decent thing. Part of me is already preparing for the hurt of finding out too late.

What I do know is this: I should be told.

Not because everything is fine. Not because I am pretending the family has not caused pain. Not because I know for certain that I would go.

I should be told because grief should not be controlled by the people who have already pushed me out. I should be told because I had a grandad, and I have memories, and I deserve the dignity of making my own decision.

Whether I attend or not, that choice should be mine.