**Diary Entry – 12th October**
He’s a father to only one of our two daughters. But does our little girl not have a heart of her own?
When I married Andrew, I knew he already had a child from his first marriage. He never hid it—quite the opposite, he made it clear from the start that he would never abandon her and would always support her however he could. I respected that. After all, a child isn’t to blame for their parents’ failed relationship. I never protested, never felt jealous, never interfered—I thought a man who took responsibility for his daughter would be just as devoted to ours when the time came.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
When our Sophie was born, I hoped he’d divide his love equally. He did work hard, taking on extra shifts to provide for us. But his attention? All of it poured into his other family. Every Sunday without fail, he’d leave to see his eldest. Gifts, walks, cinema trips, café visits, social media posts with captions like “my perfect girl.” And our Sophie? Barely a word from him. I suppose he found a baby dull. He’d shrug it off, saying he was too tired, that she was too young, that “later” he’d read to her, play with her, spend time with her. I believed him. I waited. I endured.
But as years passed, nothing changed.
When his eldest started school, Andrew gave more towards her upkeep. By then, I was working too, so it didn’t strain us. But then the calls began. His older daughter started asking—first for an iPhone, then designer trainers, then makeup, a tablet, a holiday abroad. His ex-wife, to her credit, never demanded a thing. I can’t fault her. But that girl quickly learned how to twist him around her finger. And he let her. He carried this guilt—for leaving, I suppose—and tried to buy her love.
His ex even argued with him about it, insisting he’d spoil her, that gifts weren’t a substitute for affection. Andrew would just wave her off: “It’s the least I can do.” Funny how he never felt that guilt towards Sophie. Even though he gave her none of his time.
Every birthday for his eldest was an event—balloons, cakes, photoshoots. Every Sunday, without fail, he’d see her. Not once did he take Sophie along. He claimed the elder one would resent it, that it would “complicate things.” But what about Sophie’s feelings? Why did her heart matter less?
I stayed quiet. But mine broke a little more each day. I never let Sophie see my pain, but she noticed. She grew up in a house with a father who was there… but not really. Physically present, emotionally absent. He’d sprawl on the sofa, glued to his phone, muttering a few words at dinner. All she wanted was for him to hold her hand, ask about her day, read her a bedtime story.
Now his eldest is nearly sixteen, and her demands have skyrocketed. Sometimes it shocks me. Andrew never says no—phones, designer clothes, holidays abroad. Two this year alone. Yet he can’t manage a single trip for us. Always too skint. Too exhausted. Too busy.
This summer, Sophie stayed home in London while her sister jetted off again. That’s when I snapped. For the first time, I told him how it felt. No shouting—just grief. I said it hurt, watching him forget our daughter. That a child who flies abroad twice a year and gets the latest gadgets isn’t “deprived.” But Sophie? She hasn’t seen the sea in three years. She’s never had a gift without a reason. Yet she still loves him. Still waits for him. Still believes, somehow, he’ll notice her too.
And he’s convinced he treats them the same.
I think more and more that only divorce might wake him up. Maybe then he’d see that Sophie has feelings too. That she deserves a father, not a shadow on the sofa. But I’m terrified. Because I still love him. Yet I can’t bear watching our girl grow up with that hollow ache in her chest…
