I know they’re my children,” he murmured, eyes downcast. “But… I can’t explain why there’s no bond between us.

“I know they’re my children,” he said without looking up. “But… I cant explain it. Theres just no connection between us.”

“Look at her! Shes so beautiful!” I exclaimed, cradling the warm little body of our newborn daughter. Lily was wrapped in a soft blanket, curled up like a tiny bundle of life, breathing softly. I couldnt take my eyes off her. In that moment, the world shrank to just her face, her breath, one thought: “Shes ours. Shes here.”

Beside me stood James. He was looking at the baby, but his eyes held something elsesomething uncertain, almost fearful. He reached out, gently brushing his finger against her cheek.

“She looks like you,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. But his voice lacked the joy Id expected. There was no overflowing happiness, no excitement. At the time, I didnt think much of it. So she looked like meso what? What mattered was our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were parents now.

But as the years passed, and when our second daughter, Emily, was born, I started noticing what Id refused to see before. Both girls were strikingly alikebig brown eyes, a delicate nose, high foreheads, thick dark hair. They couldve been copies of my fathers childhood photos. Not a trace of James in them. No blue eyes, no dimples, not even his expressions. It became a problem. A painful one.

I sat at the kitchen table, stirring my long-cold tea. Behind me, the girls soft breathing filled the silence. Across from me, my mother-in-law, Margaret, wore a strange look. Shed “just dropped by,” as she always said. But I knew betterespecially after months of tension between us.

“Olivia,” she began carefully, like she was stepping on thin ice, “the girls are lovely, of course. But… are you sure theyre Jamess? They look so much like your father. Spitting image, really. Its odd, isnt it?”

My spoon clinked against the mug. I froze. Id heard whispers beforejokes, hints, side comments. But from her, from the woman who called me “family,” it cut deeper. Like a punch to the gut.

“Margaret, how could you even say that?” My voice shook. “Of course theyre Jamess! You know how long we waited, how hard we tried! He was there when they were born! How can you doubt it?”

She just shrugged, as if to say, “Stranger things have happened.” And in that gestureher quiet certainty that doubt was justified. I felt anger tighten in my chest, but worse was the fear. Because the real nightmare wasnt her words. It was that James had started pulling away too.

“James, why didnt you pick Lily up from nursery again?” I asked when he stumbled in late, nearly dawn. Lily was already asleep; Emily dozed on the sofa. I was exhausteddouble shifts, housework, endless worrybarely keeping my eyes open.

“Forgot. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing his jacket on the chair without glancing at me. “Had things to do.”

“You always do,” I snapped. “When was the last time you spent time with them? Read Emily a story? Played with Lily?”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then his voice, quiet but crushing:

“I dont feel anything for them, Liv. 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 wanted a daughter who looked like him. Hed imagined teaching her, bragging about shared traits. Instead, he got two girls who mirrored my father. Like Id made them alone.

I scoured the internetgenetics, heredity, dominant vs. recessive traits. Turns out, it happens. Sometimes kids resemble grandparents more than parents. My dads genes were strongbrown eyes, dark hair. Both girls got them. But how do you explain that to a man whos already decided?

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 bond.”

“Have you even tried?” I nearly shouted. “Spent time with them? Been their dad? Or are you waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”

More silence. And in it, I felt our family crumbling.

His family made it worse. Margaret and his sister, Claire, acted like Lily and Emily werent theirs. Rare visits, backhanded remarks about how the girls “took after your side.” Once, Claire laughed, “Olivia, sure you didnt borrow your dads genes?” like it was a joke.

I snapped. “Claire, this isnt funny. Theyre Jamess daughters. 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 “didnt feel a bond,” and his family poured salt on the wound. Mine lived too far, too old to help. Id never felt so alone.

One night, after the girls were asleep, I forced the conversation. We couldnt keep going like this.

“James,” I said, steadying my voice, “I know youre hurt. I wanted them to look like you too. But theyre ours. They didnt choose their genes. Neither did I. It kills me watching you pull away.”

He sighed deeply. “I hate myself for it. But every time I look at them, I see your dad. Like I dont belong.”

I took his hand. “You do. Youre their father. They love you, even if you dont see it. Lily asked why you never play. Emily reaches for you, and you turn away. They notice, James. Theyre little, but they know.”

His head dropped. I saw the weight on him. So I said, “Start small. Just be with them. Dont think about who they look like. Theyre your girls.”

Months passed. James changed. Slowly, imperfectly. He picked Lily up from nursery, helped her tie her shoes, read to Emily at bedtime. Bought them blocks, drew with them, made up stories. The girls respondedLily bragged, “Daddy helped me build a tower!” Emily, who once cried if left with him, now ran into his arms.

His family? Harder. Margaret still tosses barbs, but I tune them out. I cant force love, but I can shield my family.

We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he saw beyond their facestheir quirks, habits. Lily wrinkles her nose when she laughs, just like him. Emily dances to his old records, like he did as a boy.

Were not perfect. Sometimes I still resent his early distance. Sometimes I want to scream at his family. But I see him trying. Learning to be a dad. And Ive learned love isnt about looks. Its time. Its bedtime stories, wiped tears. Its the bond you buildday by day, heart by heart.

And Im grateful that bond finally took root.