He is a father to only one of his two daughters. But does our little girl not have a heart of her own?
When I married Andrew, I knew he already had a daughter from his first marriage. He never hid it—in fact, he made it clear from the start that he would never abandon his child and would support her however he could. I respected that. After all, a child isn’t to blame for her parents’ failed relationship. I never protested, never grew jealous, never interfered—I thought a man responsible enough to care for one daughter would be just as devoted to ours when the time came.
But I was wrong.
When our little Emily was born, I hoped he would now share his love equally. He did work hard, taking extra shifts to provide for us. But his attention—all of it—flowed elsewhere, to that other family. Every Sunday, he left to see his eldest. Gifts, walks, cinema trips, cafés, social media posts with hashtags like “#bestdaughterever.” And our Emily? She barely spoke to her father. He seemed bored by her infancy, brushing it off with excuses—he was tired, she was too young, he’d spend time with her when she was older. I believed him. I waited. I endured.
Time passed, but nothing changed.
When his eldest started school, Andrew began sending more money for her upkeep. By then, I was working too, so it didn’t strain us. Then the calls started. Eleanor—his firstborn—began asking for things herself. First an iPhone, then designer trainers, then makeup, a tablet, a holiday abroad. His ex-wife, to her credit, never demanded a thing. But the girl quickly learned how to manipulate him. And he let her. He carried guilt—for leaving her, I suppose—and tried to buy her affection.
Even his ex scolded him once or twice. Told him he was spoiling their daughter, that love shouldn’t be replaced with presents. But Andrew just waved her off. “This is how I make it right,” he’d say. Yet he felt no guilt toward our Emily. Though he spent no time with her, no apologies came.
Every birthday for Eleanor was an event—balloons, cakes, photo shoots. Every Sunday, without fail, he saw her. Not once did he take our little girl along. Said Eleanor might resent it. That it would “complicate things.” But what of Emily’s feelings? Why did her heart matter less?
I stayed silent. But mine ached. I hid my pain from Emily, though she noticed anyway. She grew up in a house with a father who was there… but only in body. He slept on the sofa, scrolled his phone, mumbled a few words a day. All she wanted was his hand holding hers, his voice asking about her day, a bedtime story.
Now Eleanor is nearly sixteen. Her demands have become absurd. Some days, I’m stunned. Andrew never says no—phones, makeup, designer clothes, holidays abroad. Two this year alone. Yet he can’t take us away even once. Always too tired. Too broke. Too busy.
This summer, Emily stayed home with me while her sister jetted off again. That’s when I snapped. Not shouting—just bleeding out every hurt. I told him how it crushed me to see our daughter forgotten. That a child flying abroad twice a year, showered with gadgets, was hardly “deprived.” But Emily? She hasn’t seen the sea in three years. Never gets a gift unless it’s her birthday. And still, she loves him. Waits for him. Believes he’ll notice her one day.
He swears he treats them the same.
More and more, I wonder if only divorce will wake him. Maybe then he’ll see that Emily has feelings too—that she deserves a father, not a ghost on the sofa. But fear grips me. Because I still love this man. Yet I can’t bear to watch our daughter grow up with an emptiness where her father should be.
