“I know they’re my children,” he murmured, not meeting my gaze. “But I can’t explain why, I just dont feel any connection to them.”
“Look at her! Isnt she beautiful?” I exclaimed, cradling the warm little body of our newborn daughter. Emily lay swaddled in a soft blanket, curled up like a tiny bundle of life, her quiet breaths barely audible. I couldnt tear my eyes away from her. In that moment, the world narrowed to a single face, a single breath, a single thought: “Shes ours. Shes finally here.”
Beside me stood James. He looked at the baby, but his gaze was mixedtenderness and something else. Something uncertain, almost fearful. He reached out, his finger gently brushing her cheek.
“She looks like you,” he whispered. But there was none of the bright joy Id expected in his voice. None of the overwhelming happiness that should have been spilling over. At the time, I brushed it off. So she resembled mewhat did it matter? What mattered was our family had grown, that our daughter was healthy, that we were parents at last.
But the years passed, and when our second daughter, Charlotte, was born, I began noticing what Id once refused to see. Both girls were strikingly alike. Their large hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, and thick dark hairit was as if theyd stepped straight out of a portrait of my own father. Not a trace of James was in them. Not his blue eyes, nor his dimples, nor even the way he smiled. It became a problem. A painful, serious one.
I sat at the kitchen table, mechanically stirring my long-cold tea. Behind me, the steady breathing of our sleeping girls filled the quiet. Across from me sat my mother-in-law, Margaret, wearing an odd expression. Shed “just popped in,” as she always said. But I knew betterespecially after the tension of the past few months, the unspoken words and icy resentment between us.
“Victoria,” she began, choosing her words carefully, as if afraid to offend, “the girls are lovely, of course. But youre certain theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image, really. Isnt it strange?”
The spoon clinked against the cup in my trembling hand. I froze. Id heard these words beforein jokes, in hints, in whispers. But from her, the woman whod once called me “family,” it cut deeper. Like a punch to the gut.
“Margaret, how could you say that?” My voice shook. “Of course theyre Jamess! You know that! We waited so long for themI gave birth, he brought them home from the hospital! How can you doubt it?”
She only shrugged, as if to say, “Who knows?” And in that gesture lay her certainty that doubt had every right to exist. Anger coiled inside me, but beneath it was something worse: fear. Because the most terrible thing wasnt her words. The most terrible thing was that James, too, had begun pulling away from our children.
“James, why didnt you pick Emily up from nursery again?” I asked when he came home late, nearly at dawn. Emily was already asleep; Charlotte dozed on the sofa. I, exhausted after a double shift and endless worries, could barely keep my eyes open.
“Forgot. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing his coat onto a chair without looking at me. “Busy day.”
“Youre always busy,” I snapped. “When do you ever spend time with them? When was the last time you played with Charlotte? Or even read Emily a story?”
Silence. A long, suffocating silence, broken only by his quiet, heavy voice:
“I dont feel drawn to them, Victoria. I dont know why. They they feel like strangers. I try, but I dont feel like theyre mine.”
Tears burned my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? About the children hed once longed for? But then I realizedhe meant it. James had wanted a daughter who looked like him. Hed imagined playing with her, being proud when she inherited his features. Instead, he got two girls who mirrored my father. As if Id made them alone.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, heredity, dominant and recessive traits. It turned out this happened sometimes. A child might favor a grandparent over a parent. My father had strong geneshazel eyes, dark hair, a high forehead. Both girls had inherited them. But how could I explain that to James and his family when theyd already made up their minds?
I suggested a DNA test. Not because I doubted, but to end the question once and for all. He refused.
“I believe theyre mine,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just cant explain it. I dont feel connected to them.”
“Have you tried?” I nearly shouted. “Have you tried being with them, playing with them, being their father? Or are you just waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”
Silence again. And in that silence, I felt our family crumbling.
His family made it worse. Margaret and his sister behaved as though Emily and Charlotte werent truly theirs. They visited rarely, and when they did, theyd remark how the girls “took after Victorias side.” Once, his sister, Elizabeth, joked,
“Victoria, youre sure you didnt have them by your grandfather?” and laughed as if it were funny.
Id had enough.
“Elizabeth, this isnt a joke. These are my children, and theyre your brothers. If you dont like it, dont come back.”
She was offended, of course. But what choice did I have? I was raising two girls alone while James “didnt feel connected,” and his family only deepened the wound. My parents lived far away, and age made visits difficult. Id never felt so alone.
One evening, after the girls were asleep, I decided enough was enough. Either we fixed this, or our family would break for good.
“James,” I began, keeping my voice steady, “I know youre hurt. I wanted a daughter who looked like you, too. But these are our children. They didnt choose their genes. And neither did I. It kills me to watch you pull away.”
He was silent for a long time before sighing.
“I hate myself for it. But every time I look at them, I see your father. And I feel like I dont belong.”
I took his hand.
“You do belong. Youre their father. They love you, even if you cant see it. Emily asked me yesterday why you never play with her. Charlotte reaches for you, and you turn away. They feel it, James. Theyre little, but they understand.”
He bowed his head. I saw the weight of it crushing him. So I offered a solution.
“Lets start small. Just spend time with them. Dont think about who they look like. Just be there. Theyre your daughters.”
Months passed. James changed. Slowly, imperfectly, but he tried. On weekends, he picked Emily up from nursery, taught her to tie her shoes, read bedtime stories to Charlotte. He bought them building blocks, drew with them, even made up silly tales. I watched as the girls began to lean into him. Emily proudly told her friends, “Daddy helped me build a car!” Charlotte, who once cried if I left her with James, now raced into his arms with squeals of delight.
His family was harder. Margaret still made sharp remarks, but I learned to ignore them. I couldnt force them to love my children, but I could shield my family from their poison.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it anymore. Over time, he began to see beyond their facestheir quirks, their habits, the way Emily wrinkled her nose when she laughed, just like him, or how Charlotte adored music, just as he had as a boy.
Our family isnt perfect. Sometimes, I still resent James for his past indifference. Sometimes, I want to scream at his family for their cruelty. But I see him trying. Learning to be a father. And I believe love isnt about looks. Its about time. About every “goodnight,” every tear wiped away. About the bond you build with your own hands, heart, and patience.
And Im grateful that bond, at last, took root.
