Between me and his past stands a child he never wanted to love.
Tom and I married when we were no longer young—I was thirty-two, he thirty-three. Behind us lay not just experience but a gallery of mistakes, disappointments, and unmet expectations. He had a divorce and a daughter. I had a quiet past, free of children or storms. I never objected to him seeing his child—quite the opposite, I encouraged it, nudged him toward it—but Tom wanted nothing to do with that bond. Nothing at all.
He didn’t marry his first wife out of love but out of obligation. His mother, upon learning the girl was pregnant, had declared, “You *will* marry her! You won’t disgrace her parents like this!” The girl’s family had begged, pressured, pleaded—until Tom gave in. A rushed registry office signing, a suitcase—and then straight to sea. He’d just finished naval college, and off he went. No celebration, no ring—just a dry signature in a government office.
While he sailed the oceans, his wife gave birth to a girl. He returned, held her in his arms—and felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no connection. Just exhaustion and hollowness. But having taken on the role of husband and father, he played it. He sailed, returned, brought back money, dabbled in trade, provided for them. They lived in a flat given by his father-in-law, a *reward* for “saving their daughter’s honour.” But that house held no love. Even intimacy was scarce. As Tom put it, you could count the times they’d truly been husband and wife on one hand.
One day, it had to crack. And it did. He returned from another voyage to learn his wife had cheated. She didn’t deny it. She wept, begged forgiveness, called it a mistake. But Tom saw it as an escape. He packed his things and left—no shouting, no tears. Just a closed door. Her parents didn’t even try to stop him. Everyone understood.
He sailed twice more, then decided: enough. He started his own business. Three years later, it thrived, his ex-wife and child received generous child support, and life, it seemed, was settled. Then I appeared.
We met through work. He came to buy construction materials, and we got talking. Days later, a courier delivered flowers and an invitation to dinner. Everything unfolded fast, beautifully, sincerely. We married. But I already knew his mother was a force. She immediately suspected my marriage to her son was another obligation, doubted me, mistrusted. I reassured her—no children yet, we wanted time to know each other.
She sighed in relief… and then began bringing *that* girl—Sophie—to our house every weekend. The girl my husband, forgive me, doesn’t even see as his daughter. Nor her mother. He’s distant, cold, nearly indifferent. And his mother? As if on purpose. She whispers to me, “I hope he’ll love her one day.” But the girl feels it. She walks in and runs straight to me. And Dad? Dad puts on headphones, sits at his computer, and loses himself in online battles.
And I’m left with Sophie. Moody, resentful, frustrated. No matter what I do—it’s wrong. She doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to be with *him*. And I understand. A few hours in, I’m at my limit—calling his mother to come fetch her. She arrives, stepping inside with hopeful eyes. “Well? Talked? Bonded?” What do I say? That her son spent three hours in a virtual war while I, as always, played nanny, teacher, and emotional crutch for a child who isn’t mine?
She switches tone instantly, turning sharp. It’s *my* fault, apparently. I should’ve helped him connect. The woman, she says, is the family’s cement. And me? I’m tired of being cement that holds up another’s guilt, mistakes, and coldness. I try. But I don’t have a magic wand to make a man love his child. And if he won’t—no matter how much I run, pacify, or try—nothing will change.
And of course, once again, it’s my fault.
