Between me and his past lies a child he never wished to love.
Arthur and I married when youth was already behind us. I was thirty-two, he thirty-three. Behind us lay not just experience but a gallery of missteps, regrets, and unmet hopes. He carried the weight of a divorce and a daughter. My past, untouched by children or storms, was quieter by far. I never stood in the way of his ties to his child—quite the opposite. I nudged, encouraged. Yet Arthur wanted none of it. Not a shred.
His first wife had not been a choice of love but of duty, pressed upon him by his mother. When the news came that the girl was expecting, his mother declared, “You must marry her! You won’t disgrace her family!” Her parents wept, pleaded, pressed—and Arthur relented. A quick registry office signing, a suitcase packed, and off to sea he went, fresh from the naval academy. No celebration, no ring—just a dry signature on a certificate.
While he sailed the oceans, his wife bore a girl. He returned, held the child in his arms—and felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no bond. Only weariness and hollowness. Yet, having taken on the roles of husband and father, he played the part. He sailed, returned, brought home money, dabbled in trade, kept the household afloat. They lived in a flat gifted by her father, a price of “saving their daughter’s honour.” But love never lived in that house. Even intimacy was rare. Arthur once admitted they had scarcely lain together as husband and wife—a handful of times at most.
Cracks were bound to form. And they did. He returned from a voyage to learn his wife had been unfaithful. She confessed without denial, weeping, begging forgiveness, calling it a mistake. But Arthur saw it as his escape. He packed his things and left—no scene, no tears. Just a closed door. Her parents didn’t plead for his return. They all knew the truth.
He sailed twice more before deciding enough was enough. He started his own business. Within three years, it thrived. His former wife and child received generous support, and life seemed settled. Then I appeared.
We met through work. He came to purchase building supplies, and we struck up a conversation. Two days later, a courier delivered flowers and an invitation to supper. Everything unfolded swiftly, beautifully, sincerely. We married. But I already knew his mother—a woman of strong will. She doubted me at once, suspecting I’d trapped him as the first had. She mistrusted, questioned. I soothed her: no children yet, we wished to know each other first.
She sighed in relief… then began bringing that very girl—Alexandra—to us every weekend. A child my husband, forgive me, scarcely acknowledged as his own. Just as he had her mother. Distant, cold, near indifferent. And his mother—as if on purpose—whispered to me, “Perhaps one day he’ll love her.” Yet the child felt it all. She’d step into our home and run straight to me. And her father? He’d put on his headphones, lose himself in battle games, shutting out the world.
So I was left with Alexandra. Petulant, wounded, restless. No matter how I tried, it was never enough. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be near him. And I understood. After hours of it, even I was frayed—calling his mother to fetch her. She’d arrive and, crossing the threshold, ask at once, “Well? Have they spoken? Bonded?” What could I say? That her son had spent three hours in virtual warfare while I, as ever, played nursemaid, tutor, and comforter to another woman’s child?
His mother’s tone would shift to reproach. It was my fault, she’d say. I couldn’t bridge the gap. A woman, she insisted, was the cement of a family. And me? I was tired of being cement—bearing the weight of another’s failures, mistakes, and coldness. I tried. But I had no magic wand to make a man love his child. And if he wouldn’t—no matter how I ran, pleased, or persevered—nothing would change.
Yet still, the blame fell on me.
