**“Between Me and His Past – a Child He Never Learned to Love”**
Oliver and I married when we were far from young. I was thirty-two, he was thirty-three. Behind us lay not just experience but a gallery of mistakes, disappointments, and unmet hopes. He had a divorce and a daughter. I had a quiet past—no children, no storms. I didn’t mind him staying in touch with his child—if anything, I encouraged it. But Oliver wanted no part of it. None at all.
His first wife wasn’t a choice of love but of duty. His mother, upon learning the girl was pregnant, insisted, “You must marry her! You won’t shame her family!” Her parents begged, pleaded, pressured—and Oliver gave in. A quick registry office signing, a suitcase, and straight off to sea. He’d just finished naval college, so off he went. No celebration, no ring—just ink on paper.
While he sailed the oceans, his wife had a girl. He came back, held her—and felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no bond. Just exhaustion and hollowness. But since he’d taken on the role of husband and father, he played the part. Sailed, returned, brought money, dabbled in trade, provided. They lived in a flat gifted by her father, a reward for “saving their daughter’s honour.” But love never lived there. Even intimacy was rare. As Oliver told it, you could count on one hand the times they were truly husband and wife.
One day, it had to crack. And it did: he returned from a voyage to find she’d cheated. She didn’t deny it. Cried, apologised, called it a mistake. But Oliver saw it for what it was—his way out. He packed and left. No fights, no scenes. Just closed the door. Her parents didn’t even try to stop him. Everyone understood.
He did two more tours, then quit. Started his own business. Within three years, it thrived. His ex and their daughter got decent maintenance, and life, it seemed, settled. Then I came along.
We met through work. He came to buy supplies, and we got talking. Days later, a courier delivered flowers and an invitation to dinner. It all unfolded quickly, beautifully, honestly. We married. But I already knew his mother was… difficult. She doubted our marriage was genuine, thought it forced. I reassured her—no children yet, let’s learn each other first.
She sighed in relief… then began bringing *that* girl—Sophie—over every weekend. The child my husband, frankly, doesn’t see as a daughter. Nor does he see her mother. He’s distant, cold, almost indifferent. His mother? It’s like she does it on purpose. Whispering, “I hope he’ll love her one day.” But Sophie feels it. She walks in and clings to me. And Dad? Puts on headphones, boots up his PC, and vanishes into his games.
So I’m left with Sophie. Moody, hurt, resentful. No matter what I do, it’s wrong. She doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be near him. And I don’t blame her. After a few hours, I’m frayed—ringing his mother to fetch her. She arrives, steps in, asks, “How did it go? Did they talk? Bond?” What am I to say? That her son spent three hours in a pixelated war while I played nanny, therapist, and comfort blanket for a child who isn’t mine?
His mother’s tone shifts instantly. Now it’s *my* fault. I’m the reason he won’t connect. “It’s the woman’s job to bind the family,” she says. Me? I’m tired of being glue for his guilt, his mistakes, his coldness. I try. But I don’t have a wand to make a man love his own child. And if *he* won’t—no matter how I run, soothe, or strive—nothing will change.
Yet somehow, it’s the same answer: *my* fault.
**Lesson learned:** You can’t mend a heart that refuses to feel. No matter how much of your own you pour into it.
