**Diary Entry**
When I first met James, he was upfront about being divorced with a son from his previous marriage. I was twenty-three, fresh into my first serious relationship, and it didn’t bother me. If anything, I admired his sense of responsibility—he hadn’t abandoned his boy, stayed involved in his life, made sure he was cared for. James was nine years older, and I truly believed a man like him would build a stable, loving family.
The first year of marriage was lovely. We rarely argued; he gave me attention, supported my ambitions, and didn’t mind that I wasn’t ready for children yet—I wanted to focus on my career. Still, even then, I noticed how every holiday revolved around his son. I understood—the boy didn’t have his father around daily—so I stayed out of it, kept busy with hobbies, told myself it was fine.
Then the pressure started. James kept insisting a family wasn’t complete without children, that I was dragging my feet. “Now’s the perfect time,” he’d say, “we’re still young—it’ll be easier.” Even Mum chimed in: “You’re not getting any younger, and it only gets harder.” I tried explaining I wanted fulfilment first, that I wasn’t ready—but no one listened.
Eventually, I gave in. Work had already grown stagnant—management kept hinting it was “time for maternity leave.” I crunched the numbers, talked it over with Mum (she promised to help), and decided: now or never.
I fell pregnant quickly. James was over the moon—pampered me, booked private scans, doted on me. I worked nearly up to my due date; the pregnancy was smooth. Then our son arrived—tiny, perfect, long-awaited. Yet nothing changed for James.
He still spent every spare moment with his eldest. “He’s older, more fun—we play football, games, go to the cinema,” he’d say, rushing out the door. Meanwhile, I was drowning in nappies, tears, sleepless nights. “What am I meant to do with a baby? When he’s older, I’ll step in,” he’d argue.
Mum tried soothing me: “Men don’t know how to handle infants; it’ll get better.” I believed her. And to be fair, James didn’t ignore our son entirely—but his care was… performative. Five minutes of holding him, a quick kiss, then gone again.
Two years passed. I returned to work. Our son started nursery. Yet James remained absent. Evenings—fifteen minutes at bedtime. Weekends—back to his eldest. Every holiday, every plan—always with him. Whenever I brought it up, the answer was the same: “My older boy needs me more. It’s a difficult age. You wouldn’t understand.”
And maybe it’s true—his son lives with his ex, has a stepdad now, a half-sister on the way. Maybe he *does* struggle. But why should our son pay the price? Why must he settle for scraps of attention? Why does his love have to wait—until when? Ten? Fifteen?
James swears he’s being fair, splitting his time equally. But his “equal” feels anything but. I can’t bear watching our son reach for him, only for James to pull away. I can’t stand the unspoken question in his eyes: *Will Dad stay today?*
Sometimes I think divorce is the only way to make James a proper father to our boy. Become the “ex.” Force our son into that same scheduled love. The idea feels less absurd by the day.
I’m tired of being sidelined in my own family. Tired of watching my son’s childhood pass by—fatherless, lonely, utterly overlooked. I won’t let him grow up feeling unloved, unworthy. Because I know that feeling—and it ruins you.