Between me and his past stands a child he never wanted to love.
Oliver and I married when we were far from young. I was thirty-two, he thirty-three. Behind us lay not just experience, but a gallery of mistakes, disappointments, and broken dreams. He had a divorce and a daughter. I had a quiet past—no children, no storms. I never objected to him seeing his child—quite the opposite. I encouraged it, nudged him toward it. But Oliver wanted no part of that bond. None at all.
His first wife wasn’t a choice of love, but of his mother’s insistence. When she learned the girl was pregnant, she declared, *”You will marry her! You won’t let her family be shamed!”* Her parents wept, begged, pressured—until Oliver gave in. A quick registry office signing, a wedding night cut short—straight to sea. He’d just graduated from the naval academy and left port. No celebration, no ring—just a signature on paper.
While he sailed the oceans, his wife gave birth to a girl. He returned, held her for the first time—and… felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no connection. Just exhaustion and emptiness. But he played the role. Sailed out, returned, brought money, dabbled in trading to keep them afloat. They lived in a flat gifted by his father-in-law—payment for “saving their daughter’s honour.” But that house held no love. Even intimacy was rare. As Oliver told me, they barely touched in all those years.
At some point, it had to break. And it did: he came home from a voyage to find his wife had cheated. She didn’t deny it. She cried, begged forgiveness, called it a mistake. But for me—it was his way out. He packed his things and left. Spared the theatrics, the tears. Just shut the door. Her parents didn’t even plead for him to stay. They all knew.
He made two more voyages before quitting. Started his own business. Within three years, it thrived. His ex-wife and child received generous child support—everyone seemed settled. Then, I came along.
We met through work. He came to buy lumber, and we talked. Days later, a courier delivered flowers and an invitation to dinner. It was fast, beautiful, real. We married. But I knew his mother was a force. She suspected our union was another obligation. Doubted me. But I reassured her—no children yet, just time to learn each other.
She sighed in relief… then began bringing *that* girl—Sophie—to us every weekend. The girl my husband barely acknowledged as his own. Just like her mother. He was distant, cold, almost indifferent. His mother? As if on purpose. Whispering to me, *”Maybe he’ll learn to love her.”* But Sophie sensed it. She’d rush to me the moment she stepped inside. And her father? He’d slip on headphones, vanish into his computer, lost in some war game.
So there I was—with Sophie. Moody, resentful, irritable. No matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be near him. And I understood. Two hours in, I’d be at my limit—calling his mother to take her back. She’d arrive, stepping inside with hopeful eyes. *”Well? Have they talked? Bonded?”* What could I say? That her son spent three hours in a virtual battlefield while I played nanny, therapist, and emotional sponge for a child who wasn’t mine?
Instantly, she’d shift. Blame *me*. Say I wasn’t trying hard enough to *fix* him. That it’s always the woman’s duty—the glue that holds a family together. But I? I was tired of being the glue holding the weight of his guilt, his mistakes, his ice. I tried. But I had no magic wand to make a man love his child. And if he refused—no amount of running, soothing, or pleading would change it.
Yet somehow—it was still my fault.
