“James, I didn’t want to spill the beans on your wedding day, but did you know your new wife has a daughter?” My colleague pinned me in my driver’s seat with this revelation.
“What do you mean?” I refused to let the news sink in.
“My wife, upon seeing your Emily at the wedding, whispered: ‘I wonder if the groom knows his bride has a daughter in an orphanage?’ Just imagine, James! I almost choked on my salad at the table. My wife, a midwife, said she personally handled the paperwork when Emily gave up her newborn daughter. Apparently, Emily named her daughter Olivia and gave her the surname White. That was about five years ago,” my colleague eagerly watched for my reaction.
I sat in my car, stunned. This is real news! I decided to get to the bottom of it myself. I couldn’t believe it. Of course, I realized Emily wasn’t some naïve eighteen-year-old; she was thirty-two when we married. Emily must have had a life before me. But why give up her own child? How do you live with that?
Given my job, I swiftly found the orphanage where Olivia White was raised. The director introduced me to a cheerful girl with a radiant smile:
“Meet our Olivia White,” he said, turning to the girl, “Tell the gentleman how old you are, dear.”
It was hard not to notice the severe squint in the girl’s eyes. My heart went out to her. I already felt a connection, as if she were my own, a part of my soul. After all, this little one was the child of the woman I loved! My grandmother always said,
“A child, no matter what, is always a wonder to the parents.”
Olivia stepped forward confidently:
“I’m four years old. Are you my daddy?”
I was taken aback. How do you answer a child who sees every man as her father?
“Olivia, let’s have a chat. Do you wish to have a mum and a dad?” Likely not the best question, but I already wanted to hug this sweet girl and take her home at once.
“I do! Will you take me with you?” Olivia asked, her eyes searching mine.
“I will, but a little later. Can you wait a bit, sweetheart?” I felt tears welling up.
“I’ll wait. You promise?” Olivia turned serious.
“I promise,” I kissed her cheek.
At home, I laid it all out for Emily.
“Emily, it doesn’t matter what happened before us. Olivia needs to come home. I’ll adopt her.”
“And have you asked me if I want this child? And she’s cross-eyed too!” Emily raised her voice.
“She’s your own daughter! I’ll arrange for a surgery to fix her eyes. Everything will be fine. She’s wonderful. You’ll fall in love with her,” I was shocked by Emily’s attitude. It took a lot of persuading to get Emily on board with adopting Olivia.
We had to wait for about a year before we could bring Olivia home. I visited her often at the orphanage, and in that time Olivia and I grew close. Emily, however, didn’t warm to the idea of having a child. She even wanted to halt the adoption process midway. I insisted we continue and finalize it.
Finally, the day arrived when Olivia crossed the threshold of our home for the first time. Little things we overlooked amazed and delighted her. Soon, Olivia’s eye condition was treated by ophthalmologists, which took about a year and a half. I was relieved she didn’t need surgery. Olivia became a spitting image of her mum, Emily. I was thrilled – my family had two beauties, my wife and my daughter.
Nearly a year out of the orphanage, Olivia couldn’t seem to fill up. She always clung to a packet of cookies, both walking and sleeping. Nothing could pry it out of her hands. It was clearly a fear of hunger. It irked Emily and baffled me.
I continuously tried to unite our family, but in vain. Emily couldn’t bring herself to love her own daughter. Emily was only fond of herself, her “I” – a figure with one foot stuck out. Our arguments, disputes, and bitter spats all had the same cause – Olivia.
“Why’d you bring this wild child into our home? She’ll never be normal!” Emily started to spiral.
I adored Emily. I couldn’t imagine life without her, even though my mother once mentioned:
“My boy, it’s your life, but I saw Emily with another man once. You and her won’t work out. Emily’s insincere and crafty. She’ll twist you around her finger before you know it.”
When you love someone, obstacles are invisible. Your happiness shines brighter than the stars. Emily was my ideal. The crack in our relationship appeared when little Olivia joined our home.
Perhaps she was the one who opened my eyes to the truth about my family. I was bewildered by Emily’s indifference to the child. I even longed to fall out of love with Emily, but I couldn’t. A friend once suggested:
“Listen, mate, if you want to cool your feelings for a woman, measure her with a sewing tape measure. It’s an old wives’ tale.”
“You’re joking, right?” I was puzzled.
“Measure her bust, waist, hips. That’s it, you’ll fall out of love,” I presumed my friend was mocking me.
Nevertheless, I decided to try this simple experiment. I had nothing to lose.
“Emily, let me take your measurements,” I called my wife.
Emily was surprised:
“Can I expect a new dress?”
“Sure,” I said, carefully wrapping the tape around her bust, waist, and hips.
Experiment over. I loved Emily just as much. I chuckled at my friend’s jape.
Soon after, Olivia got sick. She caught a cold. Her temperature rose. She whined, pitifully moaning and sniffing. She followed Emily everywhere, clutching her doll, Daisy. I was glad the packet of cookies was replaced by a doll in Olivia’s hands. Olivia adored endlessly dressing her doll. But now the doll lay bare – her little owner was sick, too worn out to dress her. Emily snapped at Olivia:
“Be quiet already. I can’t get a moment’s peace! Go to sleep!”
Olivia clung to her doll and continued to whine, crying harder and harder. Suddenly, Emily yanked the doll from Olivia’s hands, dashed to the window, opened it, and furiously tossed the toy outside.
“Mummy, that’s my favorite Daisy! She’ll freeze out there! Can I go get her?” Olivia sobbed loudly and dashed towards the door.
I quickly ran after the discarded doll. The lift was, of course, out of order. I raced down from the eighth floor. The doll was hanging upside down on a branch. I retrieved it and brushed off the snow. The melting snowflakes on the doll’s rubber face seemed like tears. Climbing the stairs back home, I felt I might turn grey.
There was no explaining Emily’s behavior. I entered Olivia’s room. She was kneeling by her bed, her head on a pillow. She was asleep, hiccupping and trembling in her dreams. I gently lifted Olivia onto the bed and placed the doll next to her.
Emily sat serenely in the living room, flipping through a glossy magazine, unconcerned about Olivia. That’s when my love for Emily ended. It dried up, melted away, evaporated. I finally realized Emily was beautiful but hollow. My wife seemingly understood.
We got divorced. Olivia stayed with me; Emily didn’t object.
Later, when I ran into my ex-wife, she dryly said with a smirk:
“James, you were nothing but a stepping stone for me.”
“Oh, Emily! Your eyes are bright blue, but your soul is pitch black,” I could finally voice this reproach without pain. Emily quickly remarried a successful businessman.
“I pity her husband. A woman like her shouldn’t be a mother,” my mum concluded emphatically.
Olivia initially missed her mum deeply, wishing she could touch her just once.
But my new wife, Liz, succeeded in winning Olivia over, warming her heart. It seemed Olivia had been rejected by her mother twice. To me, it was inconceivable.
Liz showered Olivia and our son, Jack, with boundless love and patience.
