**Diary Entry 15th March**
*”I know theyre mine,”* he muttered, not lifting his eyes. *”But I cant explain it. Theres just no connection.”*
*”Look at her! Shes perfect!”* I cried, cradling our newborn daughter. Little Emily lay swaddled in a soft blanket, curled up like a tiny ball of life, her breath soft and steady. I couldnt tear my eyes away. In that moment, the world shrank to just one face, one breath, one thought: *”Shes ours. Shes here.”*
Beside me stood James. He gazed at her, but his expression was a mix of tenderness and something elsesomething uncertain, almost fearful. He reached out, brushing a fingertip against her cheek.
*”She looks like you,”* he whispered. But his voice lacked the joy Id expected. No overwhelming pride, no elation. At the time, I brushed it off. So what if she resembled me? The important thing was our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were parents at last.
Years passed, and when our second daughter, Charlotte, was born, I began noticing what Id refused to see before. Both girls were strikingly similarbig hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hairall features mirroring my fathers childhood portraits. Not a trace of James in them. Not his blue eyes, his dimples, not even his expressions. It became a problem. A painful one.
I sat at the kitchen table, stirring cold tea absentmindedly. Behind me, the girls slept soundly, and across from me sat my mother-in-law, Margaret. Shed *”just popped in,”* as she always said. But I knew better. Especially after months of tension, unspoken words, and icy politeness.
*”Eleanor,”* she began carefully, *”the girls are lovely, of course. But are you sure theyre Jamess? Theyre the spitting image of your father. Its uncanny, really.”*
My spoon clinked against the cup. Those words had been tossed around beforein jokes, hints, whispers. But hearing them from her, from the woman who called me *”family,”* cut deeper. Like a punch to the gut.
*”Margaret, how could you say that?”* My voice trembled. *”Of course theyre his! You were therewe waited so long, he held them at the hospital! How can you doubt it?”*
She shrugged, as if to say, *”Stranger things have happened.”* And in that gesture, I saw her conviction that doubt was justified. Resentment coiled inside me, but so did fear. Because the worst part wasnt her words. The worst part was James pulling away.
*”James, why didnt you pick Emily up from nursery?”* I asked when he came home late, nearly at dawn. Emily was asleep, Charlotte dozing on the sofa. I was exhausteddouble shifts, chores, endless worrybarely keeping my eyes open.
*”Forgot. Sorry,”* he mumbled, tossing his coat on the chair without looking at me. *”Busy day.”*
*”Youre always busy,”* I snapped. *”When was the last time you spent time with them? Read to Emily? Played with Charlotte?”*
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then, quietly:
*”I dont feel drawn to them, Eleanor. I dont know why. They feel foreign. I try, but I dont feel like theyre mine.”*
Tears choked me. How could he say that about his own daughters? The children hed dreamed of? But I realizedhe meant it. James had wanted a daughter who looked like him. Hed imagined sharing his quirks, his pride in seeing himself reflected in her. Instead, he got two girls who resembled my father. Like Id made them alone.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, dominant and recessive traits. Turns out, it happens. Sometimes a child favors a grandparent over a parent. My fathers genes were stronghazel eyes, dark hair. Both girls inherited them. But how could I explain that to James and his family when theyd already made up their minds?
I suggested a DNA test. Not because I doubted, but to end the whispers. He refused.
*”I believe theyre mine,”* he said, staring at the floor. *”I just dont feel it.”*
*”Have you even tried?”* I nearly shouted. *”Spent time with them? Been their father? Or are you waiting for some magical bond to appear?”*
More silence. And in it, I felt our family crumbling.
His relatives were worse. Margaret and his sister, Lucy, acted like the girls werent theirs. Rare visits, constant remarks about how *”theyre not like James.”* Once, Lucy joked, *”Eleanor, sure theyre not your grandfathers?”* laughing like it was harmless.
I snapped. *”Lucy, this isnt funny. Theyre his. If you cant accept that, dont come.”*
She sulked, of course. But what choice did I have? I was raising two girls alone while James *”didnt feel connected,”* and his family made it worse. Mine lived too far away. Id never felt so alone.
One evening, after the girls were asleep, I forced the conversation. *”James, I know youre hurt. I wanted a daughter who looked like you too. But theyre ours. They didnt choose their genes. Neither did I. It kills me to watch you pull away.”*
He sighed. *”I hate myself for it. But when I look at them, I see your father. I feel irrelevant.”*
I took his hand. *”Youre not. Youre their dad. They love you, even if you dont see it. Emily asks why you dont play with her. Charlotte reaches for you, and you turn away. They notice, James. Theyre little, but they know.”*
He bowed his head. Then, slowly, he nodded.
*”Lets start small,”* I said. *”Just be with them. Dont think about who they look like. Just be there. Theyre your daughters.”*
Months passed. James changed. Not overnight, not perfectly, but he tried. Weekends, hed pick Emily up from nursery, teach her to tie her shoes, read to Charlotte at bedtime. He bought them building blocks, drew with them, made up stories. The girls respondedEmily bragged about *”Daddys robot made of blocks,”* Charlotte, who once cried when left with him, now squealed when he came home.
His family? Still a battle. Margaret still jabs sometimes, but Ive learned to ignore it. I cant force them to love my children, but I can shield us from their poison.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he stopped seeing just their faces and noticed their quirksEmilys nose crinkle when she laughs, Charlottes love for music, just like his at her age.
Our family isnt perfect. Sometimes I still resent James for his distance, his family for their cruelty. But I see him trying. Learning to be a father. And Ive learned this: love isnt about looks. Its about time. Every *”goodnight,”* every scraped knee, every moment you choose to stay. The bond isnt givenits built.
And Im grateful we built ours.
