He is a father to only one of his two daughters. But does our little girl not have a heart of her own..?
When I married Andrew, I knew he already had a daughter from his first marriage. He never hid it—in fact, he made it clear from the start that he would always care for her, no matter what. I respected that. The child wasn’t to blame for her parents’ failed relationship. I never protested, never pried, never interfered—I thought a man who took responsibility for one daughter would do the same for ours.
But it didn’t turn out that way.
When Maisie was born, I hoped he’d learn to love them equally. He worked tirelessly, took extra shifts to provide for us. Yet all his attention drifted away—every Sunday, he disappeared into his other life. Gifts, outings, cinema trips, café dates, endless social media posts with captions like “my perfect princess.” And Maisie? She barely knew him. A baby bored him, I suppose. He’d shrug it off, mumbling about exhaustion, insisting she was too little, that “one day” he’d play with her, read to her, just… be there. I believed him. I waited. I endured.
But time passed, and nothing changed.
When his older daughter started school, Andrew sent more money her way. By then, I was working too, so it didn’t break us. Then came the calls. Emily—his firstborn—began asking outright. First an iPhone, then designer trainers, then makeup, a tablet, a beach holiday. His ex-wife never demanded a thing—I’ll give her that. But the girl quickly learned how to twist him around her finger. And he let her. Guilt, I suppose. For leaving. For failing. So he tried to buy her love.
Even his ex scolded him once or twice, warning he’d spoil her, that gifts weren’t substitutes for affection. He just brushed her off: “Least I can do for her.” Yet he never seemed to feel guilty toward Maisie. He gave her no time at all.
Every birthday for Emily—a spectacle. Balloons, tiered cakes, professional photoshoots. Every Sunday—non-negotiable visits. Not once did he bring Maisie along. “It’ll upset Emily,” he’d say. “Don’t complicate things.” And what of Maisie’s heart? Why must her feelings be sacrificed for someone else’s comfort?
I stayed silent. But my chest ached. I hid it from Maisie, though she saw it all anyway. She grew up in a house where her father existed… but only barely. He was there—physically—yet miles away in every other sense. Slouched on the sofa, staring at his phone, muttering a handful of empty words each day. All she wanted was for him to hold her hand, ask about her day, read her a bedtime story.
Now Emily’s nearly sixteen. Her demands have become absurd. Sometimes I can’t believe it. Andrew never says no—iPhones, designer clothes, weekends in Paris. This year alone, she’s been abroad twice. Meanwhile, we haven’t had a proper holiday in years. Always too expensive. Too busy. Too tired.
This summer, Maisie stayed home with me while Emily jetted off to Spain. That’s when I snapped. Not shouting—just pain spilling out. I told him how it hurt, watching him forget our daughter. How a girl who globe-trots twice a year and gets the latest gadgets can hardly call herself “deprived.” But Maisie? Three years since she’s seen the sea. Not a single gift “just because.” Yet she still loves him. Still waits. Still believes, somehow, he’ll finally see her.
And he’s convinced he treats them the same.
More and more, I wonder if divorce might wake him up. Maybe losing us would make him realize—Maisie has feelings too. That she deserves a father, not a ghost dozing on the sofa. But I’m afraid. Because I still love this man. And yet, I can’t bear to watch our daughter grow up with this emptiness inside her…
