Between me and his past lies a child he never learned to love.
Tom and I married when we were no longer young. I was thirty-two, he thirty-three. Behind us weren’t just years but galleries of mistakes, disappointments, unmet hopes. He carried a divorce and a daughter. My past was quiet—no storms, no children. I didn’t mind him fostering a bond with the girl—I encouraged it, nudged him—but Tom refused entirely.
His first marriage wasn’t born of love but of duty. His mother, upon learning the girl was pregnant, had insisted, *”You must marry her! You won’t let her parents live in shame!”* Her family wept, pleaded, pressed—until Tom relented. A quick registry office signing, a suitcase packed—then straight to sea. Fresh out of the naval academy, he vanished into the waves. No celebration, no ring—just ink on paper.
While he sailed the oceans, his wife bore a girl. He returned, held her once—and felt nothing. No joy, no warmth, no connection. Only fatigue. Yet he played his part—husband, father—working the ships, returning with paychecks, dabbling in trade, keeping them afloat. They lived in a flat gifted by her father in thanks for “saving their honour.” But there was no love in that house. Even intimacy was rare. Tom once admitted they could count their moments as man and wife on one hand.
Eventually, something had to break. And it did. He returned from a voyage to find his wife had been unfaithful. She hadn’t denied it. She wept, begged forgiveness, called it a mistake. But Tom saw his escape. He packed his things and left—no scene, no tears, just a closed door. Her parents didn’t beg him to stay. They understood.
He sailed twice more before quitting. Started a business. Three years later, it thrived; his ex and the child had decent alimony; everyone seemed settled. Then I arrived.
We met through work—him buying supplies, us talking. Days later, a courier brought flowers and an invite to a café. It moved fast—beautiful, genuine. We married. But I knew his mother was formidable. She eyed me, suspecting my marriage was another obligation. I reassured her: no children yet, we wanted time. She sighed in relief… then began bringing that girl—Sophie—every weekend. The child my husband barely acknowledged as his own.
He was distant, cold, indifferent. His mother? Relentless. Whispering to me, *”Maybe he’ll love her yet.”* But Sophie felt it. She’d rush to me the moment she crossed the threshold. Tom? He’d slip on headphones, bury himself in his tank games.
So I stayed with Sophie. Moody, hurt, bristling. Nothing I did was right. She didn’t want to be here. Not with him. I understood. After hours, I’d ring his mother to fetch her. She’d arrive, stepping in with, *”How did it go? Did they talk? Bond?”* What could I say? That her son spent three hours in virtual battles while I played nanny, teacher, comfort for a child who wasn’t mine?
Her tone would shift. Blame. *It’s your fault. You can’t help him connect. The woman is the family’s cement.* But I was tired of being cement—holding up his apathy, his past, his guilt. I tried. But no magic wand could force a man to love his child. If he wouldn’t, no amount of running, soothing, striving would change it.
And of course, somehow, it was still my fault.
