“I know theyre my children,” he muttered, staring at the floor. “But I cant explain it. I just dont feel any connection.”
“Look at her! Shes beautiful!” I exclaimed, cradling our newborn daughter in my arms. Emily lay wrapped in a soft blanket, curled up like a tiny bundle of life, her gentle breaths barely audible. I couldnt tear my eyes away. In that moment, the world narrowed to just her face, her breath, one overwhelming thought: “Shes ours. Shes here.”
Beside me stood James. He gazed at the baby, but his expression was a mix of tenderness and something elsesomething uncertain, almost fearful. He reached out, hesitantly brushing his finger against her cheek.
“She looks like you,” he whispered. But his voice lacked the joy Id expected. No excitement, no overflowing pride. 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 parents now.
Years passed, and when our second daughter, Sophie, was born, I started noticing what Id once ignored. Both girls were strikingly similarbig brown eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hairmirroring 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, absently stirring cold tea. Behind me, the girls slept soundly, while across from me, my mother-in-law, Margaret, wore an unreadable expression. Shed “just dropped by,” as she always said. But I knew betterespecially after months of tension, unspoken words, and icy resentment.
“Emma,” she began carefully, “the girls are beautiful, of course. But are you sure theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image. Its remarkable, isnt it?”
My spoon clinked against the mug. I froze. Id heard these whispers beforein jokes, hints, behind my back. But from her, from the woman who called me “family,” it cut deeper. Like a punch to the gut.
“Margaret, how can you say that?” My voice trembled. “Of course theyre his! You know how long we waited, how much we wanted them! How could you doubt it?”
She shrugged, as if to say, “Stranger things have happened.” In that gestureher quiet certainty that doubt was justified. Anger 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, barely before dawn. Emily was already asleep; Sophie dozed on the sofa. I was exhausted after a double shift, chores, and endless worry.
“Forgot. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing his jacket onto a 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 Sophie?”
Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then his quiet, strained reply:
“I dont feel drawn to them, Emma. I dont know why. 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 then I realizedhe meant it. James had imagined a daughter who looked like him. Hed pictured sharing his quirks, his features, his pride. Instead, he got two girls who mirrored my father. As if Id made them myself.
I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, dominant and recessive traits. Turns out, it happens. Sometimes kids resemble grandparents more than parents. My fathers genes were strongbrown eyes, dark hair, high foreheads. Both girls inherited 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 it. Theres no connection.”
“Have you even tried?” I nearly shouted. “Spent time with them, played with them, been their father? Or are you just waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”
Silence again. And in it, I felt our family crumbling.
His family made it worse. Margaret and his sister, Claire, acted like Emily and Sophie werent theirs. Rare visits, passive-aggressive remarks about how the girls “took after your side.” Once, Claire joked,
“Emma, sure you didnt borrow your dads genes?” She laughed like it was harmless.
Id had enough.
“Claire, 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 “didnt feel connected,” and his family only made it harder. Mine lived too far, and Id never felt so isolated.
One evening, after the girls were asleep, I confronted him. We couldnt go on like this.
“James,” I said softly, “I know youre hurt. I wanted a daughter who looked like you too. But theyre ours. They didnt choose their genes. And neither did I. It kills me watching you pull away.”
He exhaled sharply.
“I hate myself for it. But when I look at them, I see your dad. And I feel like an outsider.”
I took his hand.
“Youre not. Youre their father. They love you, even if you dont see it. Emily asks why you dont play with her. Sophie reaches for you, and you turn away. They notice, James. Theyre little, but they understand.”
He bowed his head. I saw his struggle. 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 Emily up from nursery, teach her to tie her shoes, read to Sophie at bedtime. He bought them building blocks, drew with them, made up stories. I watched them gravitate toward him. Emily now boasts, “Dad helped me build a tower!” Sophie, who once cried if left alone with him, now races into his arms.
His family? Still a battle. Margaret drops snide remarks, but I tune them 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 stopped seeing just their faces and noticed their quirkshow Emily wrinkles her nose when she laughs, just like him. How Sophie adores music, exactly as he did as a boy.
Were not perfect. Sometimes, I still resent 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, finally, exists.
