Between me and his past stood a child he never wanted to love.
Tom and I got married when we were well past our wide-eyed twenties—me at thirty-two, him at thirty-three. We weren’t exactly blank slates. I had my share of quiet regrets, while Tom carried a divorce and a daughter in his back pocket. I didn’t mind him staying in touch with the child—quite the opposite, I nudged him to. But Tom? He wanted nothing to do with her. At all.
His first marriage hadn’t been about love. His mother, upon hearing the girl was pregnant, had declared, “You’ll marry her! You won’t let her parents live in shame!” Her family sobbed, pleaded, and pressured until Tom caved. A quick registry office signing, a suitcase, and off he went—fresh out of naval college, straight to sea. No wedding, no ring, just a dry signature and the open ocean.
While he sailed the seven seas, his wife had the baby. He returned, held the little girl—and felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no bond. Just exhaustion and hollowness. Still, he played the part—working trips, smuggling odd jobs, sending money home. They lived in a flat her father had gifted him as a “thank you” for saving the family honor. But love? None. Even intimacy was a rare guest. Tom once admitted you could count their proper husband-and-wife moments on one hand.
Eventually, it had to crack. And it did: he came back from a voyage to find she’d cheated. She didn’t deny it. Cried, apologised, called it a mistake. But Tom saw it as his exit. He packed his bags and left—no drama, no tears, just a closed door. Her parents didn’t even try to stop him. Everyone knew the score.
Two more trips, then he quit. Started his own business. Three years later, it thrived, his ex and the child got decent support, and life settled. Then I showed up.
We met through work—him buying building supplies, me selling them. Two days later, a bouquet arrived with a café invitation. Fast, romantic, genuine. We married. But I already knew his mum was a force of nature. She immediately suspected our marriage was another shotgun affair. Doubted me. I reassured her—no kids yet, just getting to know each other.
She sighed in relief… then started bringing that girl—Emily—over every week. The child Tom, forgive me, barely acknowledged as his. He’d just pop on headphones, dive into his tank games, and vanish. Meanwhile, Emily—moody, resentful, prickly—latched onto me. No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. She didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want him. And honestly? I got it.
Two hours in, I’d be fraying at the edges, calling his mum to fetch her. She’d bustle in, asking, “Well? Did they talk? Bond?” What could I say? That her son had spent three hours in a pixelated warzone while I played unpaid nanny and emotional sponge for a kid who didn’t belong to me?
Cue the blame. Suddenly, it was my fault for not “helping” them connect. “It’s the woman who cements the family,” she’d huff. Well, I was tired of being cement—holding up someone else’s guilt, mistakes, and frostiness. I tried. But no magic wand could make a man love his child if he didn’t want to. And no matter how much I hustled, soothed, or scrambled? Nothing changed.
Guess who’s the villain, though? Still me.
