They say there are three kinds of people you cannot trust – actors, lawyers and men.

I happen to belong to the category of 'lawyer' and hence, shall begrudgingly accept that part of the statement to be true. I'm not saying that all actors and all men aren't trustworthy – I don't know any actors and I don't know all the men in the world – but thanks to my husband I do believe that you can actually trust some men.

In true lawyer fashion, I force a genuine laugh as my two-year-old walks to my husband and demands to be carried. She walks to him first, not me. It's always been like that – they've always been in their exclusive world ever since he carried her for the first time.

After eight weeks of severe morning sickness, seven weeks of swollen feet, twenty-two weeks of cumbersome ballooned-up gestation that resulted in an excruciating seventeen-hour labor, all the kid can do is to stick to her daddy like glue and not even reach out for me when I come home from work.

If only she knew how her precious father rejected her when she was born. Of course, he was excited enough when he still couldn't see her, but almost fainted when the pink, squealing, naked body finally popped out of me.

"It's alive!" were the only words he could utter as he looked upon his child in fearful awe.

It struck the nurses and mid-wife as funny for our baby to referred to as Frankenstein, but I take birth and death seriously so I really didn't appreciate it. I told him to hold her but he declined, meekly saying that he would make her sick because he was an 'adult full of germs'.

For the next three months he refused to touch her. He would even pretend he couldn't hear when she cried at night and snored louder in response. However, it was strangely satisfying to have the baby to myself, to have her need me. I felt completed, somehow. It was like wanting him to help out but yet not wanting her to need him. At least, not as much.

I had to return to my post as a law clerk (everyone starts small when they first strike out) when my maternity leave ran out. We had a huge row the night before I returned to work – he simply could not accept the responsibility of caring for our daughter alone and claimed that I did not love him enough to put down my pursuit of being a barrister and convert to being a homemaker.

"How can you say something like that? I'm the one taking care of her day and night, I'm the one cleaning up after her – you haven't even looked at her properly! You haven't done your part, so stop preaching about mine!" I had shouted, thrusting the crying bundle toward him.

"Fine!" he had cried, grabbing the tiny person that was our child, his eyes boring into mine. "I'll look at her!"

I regretted doing that, for his expression immediately melted upon first glance. As he rocked her, she stopped crying, faster than any time I've tried to make her. My heart caught in my throat – for all the horrible things he had said, there was a sudden desperation to snatch her to my breast and snarl, "She's mine."

But it was too late. The moment their eyes locked, I knew she would never be really ours.

She would be his.

"She's beautiful," he had whispered. He then looked up at me and held my gaze for a long moment.

"I'm sorry."

As our lips met, the baby wedged safely in between us, my irritation ebbed away. I reprimanded myself for being silly because the child belonged to the both of us – she was the culmination of our love. And I did love him. In fact, I still do.

I mentally sigh as the same irritation now stings my heart. Rubbing my temples in consternation I start to think – what kind of wife am I? What kind of mother am I? Why in heaven's name am I thinking about my family in such a despicable train of thought? It is my fault for not spending time with them; of course they share a special bond.

They are perfect, I recite in my mind. I love him, he loves me, we love her.

Except I don't know if she loves me.

"Kotoko, what's wrong?" he shifts the child to his other hip and leans forward to look at me closely.

"I'm fine," I turn to him and offer a slight upturn of my lips. "Come here, Haruhi, Daddy's tired."

One thing about her is she always does as she is told, as long as you're her parents. She gives her father a lingering look before falling into my embrace. Ryouji bends down to whisper something to her, making her giggle. I am slightly miffed; another one of those secret father-daughter things, eh?

Suddenly Haruhi leaps up, clings to my neck and angles her mouth to my ear. I tingle with warmth as her lips brush my earlobe.

"Daddy wants me to say I love you and I can't let him hear," she whispers softly.

I bury my face in her hair, just in time to let it catch a tear.