“I know they’re my children,” he muttered, not lifting his eyes. “But… I can’t explain it. There’s just no connection between us.”
“Look at her! Shes beautiful!” I exclaimed, cradling the warm little body of our newborn daughter. Little Daisy lay swaddled in a soft blanket, curled up like a tiny ball of life, breathing softly. I couldnt tear my eyes away. In that moment, the world narrowed to just her face, her breath, one single thought: “Shes ours. Shes here.”
Beside me stood James. He gazed at the baby, but his expression was a mix of tenderness and… something else. Something uncertain, almost fearful. He reached out, gently brushing his finger against her cheek.
“She looks like you,” he whispered. But his voice lacked the bright joy Id expected. The excitement that should have spilled over wasnt there. At the time, I brushed it off. So she looked like meso what? What mattered was our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were now parents.
But as the years passed, and when our second daughter, Emily, was born, I began noticing what Id once refused to see. Both girls were strikingly similarbig hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hairas if copied from a portrait of my father. Not a single trace of James. Not his blue eyes, not his dimples, not even his expressions. It became a problem. A painful one.
I sat at the kitchen table, stirring long-cold tea. Behind me, the steady breathing of the sleeping girls filled the air, while across from me sat my mother-in-law, Margaret, with an odd look on her face. Shed “just dropped by,” as she always said. But I knew betterespecially after months of unspoken tension between us.
“Vicky,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “the girls are lovely, of course. But… are you sure theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image, really. Its uncanny.”
The spoon clinked against the cup. I froze. Those words had been whispered beforein jokes, hints, gossip. 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 Jamess! You know that! We waited so long for them, I gave birth, he brought them home from the hospital! How can you even doubt it?”
She just shrugged, as if to say, “You never know.” And in that gestureher silent certainty 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 from our children.
“James, why didnt you pick Daisy up from nursery again?” I asked when he came home late, barely before dawn. Daisy was already asleep; Emily dozed on the sofa. And I, exhausted from a double shift, housework, and endless worry, could barely keep my eyes open.
“Forgot. Sorry,” he mumbled, tossing his jacket onto a chair without glancing at me. “Busy day.”
“Youre always busy,” I snapped. “When do you even spend time with them? When was the last time you played with Emily? Or read Daisy a story?”
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence, until his quiet, weary voice broke it:
“I dont feel drawn to them, Vicky. I dont know why. They… they feel like strangers. I try, but I dont feel like theyre mine.”
Tears burned my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? The children hed once longed for? But I realisedhe meant it. James had wanted a daughter who looked like him. Hed imagined playing with her, proud when she inherited his features. Instead, he saw two girls who resembled my father. As if Id made them alone.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, inheritance, 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 got them. But how to 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 questions. He refused.
“I believe theyre mine,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just… dont feel connected to them.”
“Have you even tried?” I nearly shouted. “Have you spent time with them, played with them, been their father? Or are you waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”
Silence again. And in that silence, I felt our family crumbling.
His relatives made it worse. Margaret and his sister acted as if Daisy and Emily werent theirs. Visits were rare, and when they came, theyd murmur about how the girls “took after your side.” Once, his sister Sarah joked, “Vicky, sure you didnt have them by your grandad?” laughing like it was hilarious.
I snapped. “Sarah, thats not funny. Theyre Jamess 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 “didnt feel a connection,” and his family only deepened the wound. My parents lived far away, too old to help. Id never felt so alone.
One evening, after the girls were asleep, I confronted him. “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 exhaled shakily. “I hate myself for it. But when I look at them, I see your dad. I feel like an outsider.”
I took his hand. “Youre not. Youre their father. They love you, even if you dont see it. Daisy asks why you dont play with her. Emily reaches for you, and you turn away. They notice, James. Theyre little, but they understand.”
He bowed his head. “I dont know how to fix this.”
“Start small. Just be with them. Forget who they look like. Theyre your daughters.”
Months passed. James changed. Slowly, imperfectly, but he tried. He picked Daisy up from nursery, taught her to tie her laces, read to Emily at bedtime. He bought them toy trains, drew with them, made up stories. The girls blossomed. Daisy now brags, “Daddy helped me build a castle!” Emily, who once cried when left with him, now squeals with joy when he walks in.
His family? Still a struggle. Margaret still throws barbs, but Ive learned to tune her out. I cant force them to love my children, but I can shield my family from their poison.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he saw more than just their facestheir quirks, their laughs. Daisy wrinkles her nose just like him. Emily adores music, just as he did as a boy.
Were not perfect. Sometimes Im still angry at James for his distance. Sometimes I want to scream at his family. But I see him trying. Learning to be a father. And Ive learned love isnt about looks. Its about time. About every “goodnight,” every wiped tear. About the bond you build, day by day, with patience and heart.
And Im grateful that bond, against all odds, finally took root.
