Between me and his past—there’s a child he never wanted to love.
Me and James got married when we weren’t exactly young anymore. I was thirty-two, he was thirty-three. Both of us had baggage—not just experience, but a whole gallery of mistakes, disappointments, and unmet expectations. He had a divorce and a daughter. I had a quiet past—no kids, no storms. I didn’t mind him staying in touch with his kid—I even encouraged it—but James just didn’t want that connection. At all.
His first wife wasn’t a love match. He married her because his mum insisted. When she found out the girl was pregnant, she declared, “You *have* to marry her! You won’t let her parents be humiliated!” Her parents begged, pressured, pleaded—and James caved. A quick registry office signing, a suitcase—and straight off to work. He’d just finished naval college, so he went to sea. No celebration, no ring leading—just a dry signature at the registry.
While he was out sailing, his wife had a girl. He came back, held her for the first time—and felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no bond. Just exhaustion and emptiness. But since he’d taken on the husband and dad role, he kept playing it. Went on voyages, came back, brought money, even did a bit of side business, kept the family afloat. They lived in a flat his father-in-law gave them as a “thank you” for saving their daughter’s honour, but there was no love in that house. Even intimacy was rare. James once told me you could count on one hand the times they’d actually been like husband and wife.
Eventually, something had to break. And it did. He came home from a trip—and found out his wife had cheated. She didn’t deny it. Cried, apologised, called it a mistake. But James saw it as his way out. He packed up and left. No shouting, no tears. Just shut the door behind him. Her parents didn’t even try to talk him into staying—everyone knew how things were.
He did two more voyages, then decided enough was enough. Started his own business. Three years later, it was thriving. His ex and their kid got decent child support, and everyone seemed settled. Then I came along.
We met through work. He came to buy some building supplies, we got talking. Two days later, a courier brought me flowers and an invite to a café. Things moved fast—sweet, sincere. We got married. But I already knew his mum was… *a character*. Right away, she assumed *my* marriage to her son was another obligation. Doubted me, didn’t trust me. I reassured her—no kids yet, we wanted time to get to know each other.
She sighed in relief… then started bringing *that* little girl—Sophie—over every weekend. The one my husband, sorry, doesn’t even see as his daughter. Just like her mum. He’s distant, cold, almost indifferent. And his mum? *Almost* like she’s doing it on purpose. Whispers to me, “I hope he’ll grow to love her.” But Sophie *feels* it. The second she walks in, she clings to *me*. And her dad? Puts on headphones, sinks into his PC, drowns himself in War Thunder.
And I’m left with Sophie. Moody, resentful, frustrated. No matter what I do, it’s wrong. She doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be with *him*. And I get it. After a couple hours, *I’m* at breaking point—calling his mum to come fetch her. She arrives, steps in, and instantly asks, “So? Did they talk? Bond?” What do I say? That her son spent three hours in a virtual battle while I played nanny, teacher, and emotional sponge for a kid who isn’t even mine?
His mum’s tone shifts straight to blame. Says *I’m* the problem, that I’m not helping him connect. “It’s always on the woman,” she says. “She’s the glue of the family.”
But I’m *tired* of being the glue holding together someone else’s guilt, mistakes, and coldness. I *try*. But I don’t have a magic wand to make a man love his child. And if he won’t—no amount of running, pleasing, or effort will change that.
And yet somehow, it’s *still* my fault.
