*Diary Entry*
“I know they’re my children,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the floor. “But… I can’t explain it. There’s just no connection between us.”
“Look at her! Shes perfect!” I exclaimed, cradling our newborn daughter in her soft blanket. Little Rosie was curled up like a tiny ball of life, breathing softly, and I couldnt tear my gaze away. In that moment, the world shrank to just her face, her breath, one overwhelming thought: *Shes ours. Shes here.*
Beside me stood James. He stared at her, but his expression was a mix of tenderness and something elsesomething hesitant, almost fearful. His fingers brushed her cheek lightly.
“She looks like you,” he whispered. But his voice lacked the joy Id expected. No elation, no overflowing pride. At the time, I dismissed it. So what if she took after me? What mattered was our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were parents at last.
Years passed, and when our second daughter, Ellie, was born, I couldnt ignore what Id once refused to see. Both girls were strikingly alikebig hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hairall mirroring my fathers childhood portraits. Not a trace of James in them. Not his blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, or even his expressions. It became a problem. A painful one.
I sat at the kitchen table, stirring cold tea absently. Behind me, the girls quiet breaths filled the silence. Across from me, Jamess mother, Margaret, wore a strained smile. Shed “just popped by,” as she always said. But I knew better. Not after months of unspoken tension, icy remarks, and sideways glances.
“Emily,” she began carefully, “the girls are lovely, of course. But… are you *certain* theyre Jamess? Theyre the spitting image of your father. Its uncanny, really.”
The spoon clinked against my cup. Her words werent newjokes, hints, whispers had circled before. But hearing them from her, from the woman whod called me “family,” cut deeper.
“Margaret, how could you say that?” My voice trembled. “Of course theyre his! You *know* how long we waited, how he held them right after they were born. How can you doubt it?”
She shrugged, as if to say, *Stranger things have happened.* And in that gestureher certainty. That doubt had a right to exist. Resentment coiled inside me, but worse was the creeping fear. Because the hardest truth wasnt her words. It was that James, too, had begun pulling away.
“James, why didnt you pick Rosie up from nursery?” I asked when he stumbled in late, long after dawn. Rosie was asleep, Ellie dozing on the sofa. I was exhausteddouble shifts, chores, endless worrybarely standing.
“Forgot. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing his coat aside without glancing at me. “Busy day.”
“Youre *always* busy,” I snapped. “When do you spend time with them? When was the last time you played with Ellie? Or even read Rosie a story?”
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then his voice, quiet but raw:
“I dont *feel* it, Em. I dont know why. They… they dont feel like mine. I try, but theres nothing there.”
Tears burned my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? The children hed once longed for? But I realizedhe meant it. James had imagined a little girl with his smile, his eyes. Someone to carry his legacy. Instead, he got two reflections of my father. As if Id made them alone.
I scoured the internetgenetics, heredity, dominant traits. My fathers genes were strong: hazel eyes, dark hair. The girls had inherited them. But how could I explain that to James and his family when their minds were made up?
I suggested a DNA test. Not because I doubted, but to end it. He refused.
“I believe theyre mine,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just… dont *feel* it. Theres no bond.”
“Have you even *tried*?” I nearly shouted. “Have you played with them? Talked to them? *Been* a father? Or are you waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”
Silence again. And in it, our family crumbling.
His family was worse. Margaret and his sister, Claire, treated the girls like strangers. Visits dwindled; when they came, it was only to muse how “unlike James” they were. Once, Claire joked, “Em, sure you didnt borrow your dads genes?”laughing like it was harmless.
I snapped. “Claire, this isnt funny. Theyre *his* children. If you cant accept that, dont come back.”
She stormed off. But what choice did I have? I was raising two girls alone while James “couldnt connect,” and his family poured salt on the wound. Mine lived too far, too frail to help. Loneliness gnawed at me.
One night, after tucking the girls in, I finally spoke my mind. This couldnt continue.
“James,” I said carefully, “I know youre hurt. I dreamed of a girl with your eyes too. But theyre *ours*. They didnt choose their genes. Neither did I. It kills me to watch you pull away.”
He exhaled sharply. “I hate myself for it. But every time I look at them, I see your dad. Like I dont belong here.”
I took his hand. “You *do*. Youre their father. Rosie asked why you never play with her. Ellie reaches for you, and you turn away. They *feel* it, James. Theyre little, but they know.”
His head dropped. I saw the weight on him. So I offered, “Lets start small. Just spend time with them. Dont think about who they look like. Just *be there*. Theyre your daughters.”
Months passed. James changed. Slowly, imperfectly, but he tried. Weekends, hed fetch Rosie from nursery, teach her to tie laces, read to Ellie at bedtime. Bought them puzzles, drew with them, spun silly stories. I watched them blossomRosie bragging, “Dad helped me build a tower!” Ellie, who once cried when left with him, now sprinted into his arms.
His family? Harder. Margaret still snipped, but I tuned her out. I couldnt force love, but I could shield my girls.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he saw beyond their facestheir quirks, laughs, habits. Rosie scrunches her nose when she giggles, just like him. Ellie adores music, same as he did as a boy.
Were not perfect. Some days, I still resent his past distance. Some days, I want to scream at his family. But I see him trying. Learning to love them. And Ive learned this: love isnt about looks. Its the time you give. The “goodnight” kisses, tears wiped away. The bond you build, day by day, with patience and heart.
And Im grateful*so* gratefulthat bond finally took root.
*Lesson learned: Family isnt just blood. Its the love you choose to nurture, even when it doesnt come easy.*
