I know theyre my kids, he muttered, not looking up. But I cant explain it. Theres just no connection.
Look at her! Shes perfect! I beamed, cradling our newborn daughter against me. Little Lucy was 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 whole world shrank down to just her face, her breath, one thought: *Shes ours. Shes here.*
Beside me stood James. He was looking at her too, but in his eyes, there was tenderness and something else. Something uncertain, almost uneasy. He reached out, brushed a finger against her cheek.
She looks like you, he said quietlyalmost a whisper. But his voice didnt have the joy Id expected. No overwhelming pride, no elation. I brushed it off at the time. So she looks like meso what? What mattered was that our family had grown, that our daughter was healthy, that we were parents now.
But years passed, and when our second daughter, Emily, was born, I started noticing what Id refused to see before. Both girls looked startlingly alikebig hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hair, all mirroring my fathers childhood portraits. Not a single trace of James. Not his blue eyes, not his dimples, not even his expressions. And that became a problem. A painful one.
I sat at the kitchen table, stirring my long-cold tea. Behind me, I could hear the girls breathing softly in sleep. Across from me, with an odd look on her face, was my mother-in-law, Margaret. Shed just popped round, like she always said. But I knew better. Not after these past months, with all the unspoken tension between us.
Sophie, she began, picking her words carefully, like they might cut, the girls are beautiful, of course. But are you sure theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image, really. Isnt that odd?
My spoon clinked against the mug. I froze. Id heard this beforejokes, hints, whispers. But from her, from the woman who called me family, it stung like a slap.
Margaret, what are you saying? My voice shook. Of course theyre his! You know how long we waited, how much we wanted them! He was there when they were born! How could you doubt that?
She just shrugged, like *Well, you never know.* And in that shrugall her certainty that doubt was justified. I felt anger rise, but worse than that was the fear. Because the real horror wasnt her words. It was that James had started pulling away too.
James, why didnt you pick up Lucy from nursery? I asked when he finally came home, long after dark. Lucy was already asleep; Emily dozed on the sofa. And me? Exhausted from a double shift, housework, and endless worry, barely keeping my eyes open.
Forgot. Sorry, he mumbled, tossing his coat over a chair without even glancing at me. Busy day.
Youre always busy, I snapped. When was the last time you spent time with them? Read Lucy a story? Played with Emily?
Silence. Heavy, suffocating, until he finally spokequiet, but so rough:
I dont *feel* it, Sophie. I dont know why. They they dont feel like mine. I try, but its not there.
Tears burned my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? The children hed once longed for? But then I realizedhe meant it. James had imagined a daughter with his eyes, his smile. Hed pictured playing with her, proud when she inherited his traits. Instead, he got two girls who looked like my dad. Like Id made them alone.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, dominant and recessive traits. It *could* happenkids resembling grandparents more than parents. My father had strong genes: hazel eyes, dark hair. The girls got them. But how to explain that to James and his family, when theyd already decided?
I suggested a DNA test. Not because *I* doubted, but to end the whispers. He refused.
I know theyre mine, he said, staring at the floor. I just dont feel it. Theres no bond.
Have you *tried*? I nearly shouted. Have you *been* there? Played with them? Read to them? Or are you just waiting for some magic click?
More silence. And in it, I felt our family crumbling.
His family made it worse. Margaret and his sister, Claire, acted like Lucy and Emily werent theirs. Rare visits, backhanded remarks: *Theyre nothing like James.* Once, Claire laughed, Sophie, sure you didnt have them with your grandad?
I snapped. Claire, thats not funny. These are *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 feel it, and his family poured salt on the wound. My parents lived too far, too frail to help. Id never felt so alone.
Then, one night, after the girls were asleep, I forced the conversation. We couldnt go on like this.
James, I said, steadying my voice, I know youre hurt. I wanted a child who looked like you too. But theyre *ours*. They didnt choose their genes. And neither did I. It kills me to watch you pull away.
A long pause. Then a sigh. I hate myself for it. But every time I look at them, I see your father. Its like Im irrelevant.
I took his hand. Youre not. Youre their dad. They *love* youeven if you dont see it. Lucy asked yesterday why you never play with her. Emily reaches for you, and you turn away. They *notice*, James.
He dropped his head. I saw the guilt. 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 Lucy up from nursery, teach her to tie her laces. He read to Emily at bedtime, bought building sets, made up silly stories. The girls *glowed*. Lucy bragged to her friends, My dad helped me build a tower! Emily, who used to cry if I left her with him, now raced into his arms giggling.
His family? Harder. Margaret still snipes sometimes, but I tune her out. I cant make them love my kidsbut I can keep their poison away.
We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he stopped seeing just their faces and noticed *them*Lucys nose-scrunch when she laughs (just like his), Emilys love for music (same as his childhood obsession).
Were not perfect. Sometimes I still resent him for the years of distance. Sometimes I want to scream at his family. But I see him trying. Learning to be a dad. And Ive realized love isnt about looks. Its about time. The goodnight kisses, the wiped tears, the bond you *choose* to build.
And Im so, so glad we built it.
