**Diary Entry**
*15th November, 2023*
*I know theyre my children*, he said without looking up. *But I cant explain why I dont feel anything between us.*
*Look at her! Shes beautiful!* I cried, cradling the warm little body of our newborn daughter. Charlotte lay curled in a soft blanket, a tiny bundle of life, breathing softly. I couldnt tear my eyes away. In that moment, the world shrank to just her face, her breath, one thought: *Shes ours. We have her.*
James stood beside me. He looked at her, but his expression was mixedtenderness, and something else. Something uncertain, almost afraid. He reached out, brushed a finger against her cheek.
*She looks like you*, he murmured, barely above a whisper. But his voice lacked the bright joy Id expected. No overflowing happiness, just quiet words. I brushed it off then. So she favoured meso what? What mattered was our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were now parents.
Years passed, and when our second daughter, Emily, was born, I finally saw what Id refused to acknowledge before. Both girls were strikingly alikebig hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hair. They might as well have stepped from an old photograph of my father. Not a trace of James in themnone of his blue eyes, his dimples, not even his expressions. It became a problem. A painful one.
I sat at the kitchen table, stirring cold tea absently. Behind me, the girls slept soundly, while across from me sat my mother-in-law, Margaret. Shed *just dropped by*, as she always put it. But I knew better. Not after these last months of unspoken tension, of cold glances.
*Victoria*, she began carefully, *the girls are lovely, of course. But are you sure theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image, really. Isnt that odd?*
My spoon clinked against the cup. The words had been whispered beforein jokes, hints, behind hands. But hearing them from her, from the woman who called me *family*, cut deeper. Like a punch to the gut.
*Margaret, how could you say that?* My voice shook. *Of course theyre Jamess! You know thathe was there when they were born, he brought them home from the hospital! How could you doubt it?*
She shrugged, as if to say, *Who knows?* And in that gestureall her certainty that doubt had its place. Anger coiled inside me, but so did fear. Because the worst part wasnt her words. The worst part was James pulling further away.
*James, why didnt you pick Charlotte up from nursery?* I asked when he came home late, nearly dawn. Charlotte was asleep; Emily dozed on the sofa. I was exhausted after a double shift, chores, and endless worry.
*Forgot. Sorry.* He tossed his coat over a chair without looking at me. *Busy day.*
*Youre always busy.* I snapped. *When was the last time you spent time with them? Played with Emily? Read to Charlotte?*
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then his voice, quiet but weighted:
*I dont feel anything for them, Vic. Dont know why. They dont feel like mine. I try, but I just dont connect.*
Tears burned my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? The children hed once wanted, dreamed of? But I realisedhe meant it. James had imagined a daughter who looked like him. Someone to share his smile, his pride when she inherited his features. Instead, he saw my father in them. Like Id made them alone.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, dominant and recessive traits. It happened sometimeschildren resembling grandparents more than parents. My fathers genes were stronghazel eyes, dark hair, high foreheads. Both girls had them. But how to explain that to James and his family when theyd already decided?
I suggested a DNA test. Not because I doubted, but to end the whispers. He refused.
*I know theyre mine*, he said, staring at the floor. *Just I dont feel it. Theres no bond.*
*Have you even tried?* I nearly shouted. *Spent time with them, played with them, been their father? Or are you waiting for them to magically feel like yours?*
Silence again. And in it, I felt our family crumbling.
His relatives made it worse. Margaret and his sister acted like Charlotte and Emily werent family. Visits were rare, and when they came, it was always, *They dont take after James.* Once, his sister, Sarah, laughed:
*Vic, you sure theyre not your dads?* As if it were a joke.
Id had enough.
*Sarah, this isnt funny. Theyre your brothers children. If you cant accept that, dont come.*
She stormed out, offended. But what choice did I have? I was raising two girls alone while James *didnt feel a bond*, and his family made it harder. My parents lived too far, too old to help. Id never felt so alone.
One evening, after the girls were asleep, I forced the conversation. We couldnt go on like this.
*James*, I said, steadying my voice, *I know youre hurt. I wanted a daughter who looked like you too. But theyre ours. They didnt choose their genes. Neither did I. It kills me, watching you pull away.*
A long pause. Then a sigh.
*I hate myself for it. But when I look at them, I see your dad. I feel like an outsider.*
I took his hand.
*Youre not. Youre their father. They love youeven if you dont see it. Charlotte asked why you never play with her. Emily reaches for you, and you turn away. They notice, James. Theyre little, but they understand.*
He bowed his head. I saw the struggle. So I offered:
*Lets start small. Just spend time with them. Forget who they look like. Just be there. Theyre your girls.*
Months passed. James changed. Slowly, imperfectly, but he tried. Weekends, hed fetch Charlotte from nursery, teach her to tie her laces, read Emily bedtime stories. He bought them puzzles, drew with them, made up silly tales. I watched them blossomCharlotte boasting, *Dad helped me build a tower!* Emily, who once cried if left alone with him, now raced into his arms laughing.
His family? Harder. Margaret still throws barbs, but I ignore them. I cant make them love my children, but I can shield them from the poison.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he saw past their facestheir quirks, their laughs, the way Emily wrinkles her nose just like him, how Charlotte adores music, just as he did as a boy.
Our family isnt perfect. Sometimes I still resent James for the years he checked out. Sometimes I want to scream at his family. But I see him trying. Learning to be a father. And Ive learned this: love isnt about looks. Its about time. Every *goodnight*, every wiped tear, every moment you choose to stay. The bond isnt givenits made.
And Im grateful ours finally took root.
