I Know They’re My Children,” He Said Without Looking Up. “But… I Can’t Explain Why There’s No Connection Between Us.

**Diary Entry**

“I know theyre my children,” he murmured without looking up. “But… I can’t explain it. Theres just no connection between us.”

“Look at her! Isnt she beautiful?” I gasped, cradling our newborn daughters warm little body. Lily lay swaddled in a soft blanket, curled up like a tiny ball of life, her breaths soft and steady. I couldnt tear my eyes away from her. In that moment, the world shrank to just one face, one breath, one thought: *Shes mine. Shes ours.*

Beside me stood James. He gazed at the baby, but his expression was a mix of tenderness and something elsesomething uncertain, almost frightened. He reached out, hesitantly brushing a finger against her cheek.

“She looks like you,” he whispered. But his voice lacked the bright joy Id expected. No overflowing happiness, just quiet words. At the time, I brushed it off. So she resembled mewhat did it matter? Our family had grown, our daughter was healthy, and we were finally parents.

Years passed, and when our second daughter, Emily, was born, I began noticing what Id refused to see before. Both girls were strikingly similarbig hazel eyes, delicate noses, high foreheads, thick dark hairall mirroring my fathers childhood portraits. Not a trace of James in them. Not his blue eyes, not his dimples, not even the way he smiled. It became a problem. A painful one.

I sat at the kitchen table, stirring long-cold tea. Behind me, the girls breathed softly in sleep, while across from me sat my mother-in-law, Margaret. Shed “just dropped by,” as she always said. But I knew better. Especially after months of unspoken tension between us.

“Sophie,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “the girls are lovely, of course. But… are you sure theyre Jamess? They look just like your father. Spitting image. Its uncanny, isnt it?”

My spoon clinked against the cup. Her words werent newId heard them in jokes, hints, whispers. But coming 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 shook. “Of course theyre his! You *know* how long we waited for them, how much we wanted this. How could you doubt it?”

She shrugged, as if to say, *Stranger things have happened.* And in that gestureher quiet certainty that doubt had a right to exist. Resentment coiled inside me, but so did fear. Because the worst part wasnt her words. The worst part was James pulling further away.

“James, why didnt you pick Lily up from nursery?” I asked when he stumbled home late, barely before dawn. Lily was already asleep; Emily dozed on the sofa. I was exhausted after a double shift, housework, and the weight of unspoken worries.

“Forgot. Sorry,” he muttered, tossing his jacket onto a chair without glancing at me. “Works been mad.”

“Youre always busy,” I snapped. “When was the last time you spent time with them? Played with Emily? Read Lily a book?”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating. Then, quiet but raw:

“I dont feel it, Sophie. I dont know why. They… they dont feel like mine. I try, but I just *dont*.”

Tears burned my throat. How could he say that about his own daughters? About the children hed once longed for? But I realizedhe meant it. James had wanted a daughter who looked like him. Hed imagined teaching her, being proud when she inherited his traits. Instead, he got two girls who resembled my father. Like Id made them alone.

I scoured the internet, reading about genetics, dominant and recessive traits. Sometimes, children favour grandparents over parents. My fathers genes were stronghazel eyes, dark hair. Both girls had them. But how could I explain that to James and his family when theyd already decided?

I suggested a DNA test. Not because I doubted, but to end the question forever. He refused.

“I know theyre mine,” he said, staring at the floor. “I just… dont *feel* it.”

“Have you even tried?” My voice cracked. “Spent time with them? Been their father? Or are you waiting for them to magically feel like yours?”

Silence again. And in it, our family crumbling.

His family made it worse. Margaret and his sister, Charlotte, acted like Lily and Emily werent theirs. Rare visits, constant remarks about how the girls “took after *your* side.” Once, Charlotte laughed:

“Sophie, sure you didnt borrow your dads genes?”

I snapped.

“Charlotte, this isnt a joke. Theyre *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 “didnt feel it,” and his family poured salt on the wound. Mine lived too far away, too elderly to help. Id never felt so alone.

One evening, after the girls were asleep, I forced the conversation.

“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. Neither did I. It kills me, watching you pull away.”

He exhaled sharply.

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

I took his hand.

“You *do*. Youre their father. They love you, even if you dont see it. Lily asked yesterday why you never play with her. Emily reaches for you, and you turn away. They *notice*, James.”

His shoulders slumped. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Start small,” I urged. “Just *be* with them. Dont think about who they look like. Theyre your daughters.”

Months passed. James changed. Not overnight, not perfectly, but he tried. Weekends, he collected Lily from nursery, taught her to tie her laces, read Emily bedtime stories. He bought them building blocks, drew with them, made up silly tales. The girls blossomed. Lily bragged to her friends about “Daddys cool car model.” Emily, who once cried when left alone with him, now squealed with joy at his return.

His family? Harder. Margaret still muttered, but I tuned her out. I couldnt force them to love my children, but I could shield my family from their poison.

We never did the DNA test. James said he didnt need it. Over time, he saw *them*not just their faces, but their quirks. Lily scrunches her nose when she laughs, just like him. Emily adores music, same as he did as a boy.

Were not perfect. Sometimes, I still resent James for those early years. Sometimes, I want to scream at his family. But hes trying. Learning to be a father. And Ive learned this: love isnt about looks. Its about time. About every “goodnight,” every wiped tear, every moment you choose to *be there*. The connection isnt inheritedits built.

And Im grateful we built ours.

**Lesson:** Blood might bind, but love chooses. Sometimes, family isnt what youre givenits what you make.