“I know they’re my children,” he murmured, not lifting his eyes. “But… I can’t explain it. There’s just no connection between us.”
“Look at her! Shes so beautiful!” I exclaimed, cradling the warm little body of our newborn daughter. Little Lily 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 one face, one breath, one thought: “Shes mine. Shes ours.”
Beside me stood James. He gazed at the baby, but his expression held tenderness mixed with… something else. Something uncertain, almost fearful. He reached out a hand, brushing his fingertip lightly against her cheek.
“She looks like you,” he whispered. But his voice lacked the bright joy Id hoped for. There was none of the overflowing happiness Id expected. At the time, I brushed it off. So she looked like mewhat did it matter? The important thing was our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were now parents.
But as the years passed and our second daughter, Emily, was born, I began noticing what Id once refused to see. The girls were strikingly aliketheir big brown eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, and thick dark hair all echoing my fathers childhood portrait. Not a trace of James was in themnot his blue eyes, his dimples, or even his expressions. It became a problem. A painful one.
I sat at the kitchen table, absently stirring my long-cold tea. Behind me, the steady breathing of our sleeping girls filled the quiet, while across from me sat my mother-in-law, Margaret, her face unreadable. Shed “just popped in,” as she always said. But I knew betterespecially after months of unspoken tension and icy resentment between us.
“Victoria,” she began, picking her words carefully, “the girls are lovely, of course. But are you certain theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image, really. Its remarkable, isnt it?”
My spoon clinked against the mug. I froze. Id heard these whispers beforein jokes, hints, muttered comments. But coming from her, from the woman whod once called me “family,” it cut deeper. Like a punch to the gut.
“Margaret, how could you say that?” My voice trembled. “Of course theyre Jamess! You know how long we waited for them, how he held them right after they were born! How can you doubt it?”
She only shrugged, as if to say, “Stranger things have happened.” And in that gesture lay her certainty that doubt had a right to exist. Resentment coiled inside me, but so did fear. Because the worst part wasnt her wordsit was that James, too, had begun pulling away.
“James, why didnt you pick Lily up from nursery again?” I asked when he stumbled in late, long after midnight. Lily was already asleep; Emily dozed quietly on the sofa. Meanwhile, I swayed on my feet, exhausted from a double shift, chores, and endless worry.
“Forgot. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing his jacket onto a chair without looking at me. “Works been mad.”
“Youre always busy,” I snapped. “When do you ever spend time with them? When was the last time you played with Emily? Or even read Lily a story?”
He was silent. A heavy, suffocating silence, finally broken by his quiet, strained voice:
“I dont feel drawn to them, Victoria. I dont know why. They they feel like strangers. I try, but I just dont feel like theyre mine.”
Tears pricked my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? About the children hed once longed for? But then I understoodhe meant it. James had wanted a daughter who looked like him. Hed imagined playing with her, proud when she inherited his features. Instead, he got two girls who mirrored my father. As if Id made them alone.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, heredity, dominant and recessive traits. Turns out, it happens. Sometimes a child favors a grandparent over a parent. My fathers genes were strongbrown eyes, dark hair, that high foreheadand both girls had 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 questions. He refused.
“I believe theyre mine,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just dont feel a bond.”
“Have you even tried?” I nearly shouted. “Have you played with them, talked to them, been their father? Or are you waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”
Silence again. And in it, I felt our family crumbling.
His relatives were worse. Margaret and his sister, Charlotte, acted as though Lily and Emily werent theirs. Visits grew rare, and when they did come, it was only to remark how the girls “took after Victorias side.” Once, Charlotte joked,
“Victoria, sure you didnt have them by your grandfather?” and laughed like it was hilarious.
Id had enough.
“Charlotte, this isnt funny. Theyre your brothers children. If you cant accept that, dont come around.”
She sulked, of course. But what choice did I have? I was raising two girls alone while James “lacked a bond,” and his family only made it harder. Mine lived too far, and they were older now. Id never felt so alone.
One evening, after the girls were asleep, I forced the conversation. Things couldnt continue this way.
“James,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “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 sharply. “I hate myself for it. But every time 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. Lily asked why you never play with her. Emily reaches for you, and you turn away. They notice, James. Theyre little, but they understand.”
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 pick Lily up from nursery, teaching her to tie her laces. He read to Emily at bedtime, bought them puzzles, drew with them, even made up stories. I watched the girls light up around him. Lily now boasted, “Daddy helped me build a tower!” Emily, whod once cried when left with him, now raced into his arms, giggling.
His family remained difficult. Margaret still dropped sly remarks, but Id learned to ignore them. I couldnt force them to love my childrenbut I could shield my family from their poison.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he began seeing more than their facestheir quirks, their laughter, their habits. Lily scrunched her nose when she laughed, just like him. Emily adored music, same as he had as a boy.
Were not perfect. Sometimes, I still resent James for his past distance. Sometimes, I want to scream at his family. But I see him trying. Learning to be a father. And Ive learned this: love for your children isnt about looks. Its about time. About every “goodnight,” every wiped tear. About the bond you build with your own hands, heart, and patience.
And Im grateful that bond, against all odds, finally took root.
