Charlotte had always known what she was in Peter’s life. Not his wife, not the mother of his children, not his chosen partner—just his mistress. The woman he came to unwind with, to find peace and quiet.
She never asked for anything. No divorce, no promises. Just a little warmth. She accepted Peter exactly as he was—married, distant, but kind to her. Sometimes he brought groceries, sometimes helped fix things in her flat. Sometimes he’d take her hand and tell her he loved her. And that was enough.
Charlotte didn’t see herself as a homewrecker. She hadn’t lured him away. Peter had chosen to come to her. Chosen her. She was just there. No demands, no expectations.
Time passed. Peter visited often. Brought flowers, sometimes bought things for his kids—not hers, of course. Charlotte didn’t have children. The doctors had been clear years ago: infertility. That was what had ended her only marriage.
Then came the miracle. A real, unexplainable one. A pregnancy. Nearly forty years old, she wept with joy. When Charlotte’s parents found out they’d be grandparents, they didn’t even ask about the father. They just promised to help. And Charlotte… she was sure Peter wouldn’t leave. He loved her. He’d said it a hundred times.
“File for divorce,” she told him one evening. “We can be a proper family.”
He was silent. Then:
“I need time… I can’t just do this overnight.”
Charlotte gave him a week. Then another. But Peter started disappearing. Ignoring calls, making excuses, vanishing after work. One night, she stood outside his house, unable to stay away.
“What are you doing here?!” he snapped when he saw her.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re suffocating me! I’ve asked you to wait! You’re pressuring me, putting me in a bad spot!”
Charlotte went quiet, staring at him like she didn’t recognise him.
“So you won’t be with us?” she whispered.
He turned away. And then she said,
“We were never really acquainted. Forget me. Forget us. There is no ‘us’ anymore.”
She walked away. She didn’t look back.
Charlotte had a daughter. Beautiful, curly-haired, with Peter’s eyes. But when she held her, all she felt was love. Nothing else. No fear. No regret. Just happiness.
Peter tried to reach out a few times. Called. Wanted to see her. Charlotte refused.
“You made your choice,” she said. “Don’t remind her you exist. She has a father. A real one.”
She wasn’t lying. Six months later, she met a man. Gentle, steady, a bit older. He never pried. He just loved her, and the little girl. And the girl called him “Dad” almost immediately. It all happened naturally, like someone above had decided: *Now, everything will be right.*
Two years later. Spring. The park. Peter was walking without a thought in his head when he saw her. Charlotte. With a man. And a child.
The man held the little girl, laughing as she tugged his ear. Charlotte, in a summer dress, watched them with quiet happiness and murmured,
“Give Daddy a kiss, sweetheart. Look, he’s tired from carrying you.”
Peter froze. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. That was her. His daughter. His little girl. Just like his boys had been—curly, bright, full of life. And beside her, a stranger. A man who wasn’t a stranger to Charlotte anymore.
She saw Peter. Their eyes met. But she looked away, as if she didn’t know him. As if he’d never been part of her life.
And he understood. She’d kept her word. They had, in fact, never been acquainted.
And now, they never would be.
