Emily had always known exactly what she was in Paul’s life. Not his wife, not the mother of his children, not his lawful betrothed. Just his mistress. The woman he came to for comfort—where his heart and body could unwind. She was the escape, the quiet, the easy choice without the weight of obligation.
She never asked for much. No divorce, no grand promises. Just a little warmth now and then. She took Paul as he was—married, distant, but kind to her. Sometimes he’d bring groceries, sometimes help with the odd repair. Sometimes he’d hold her hand and whisper that he loved her. And for a while, that was enough.
Emily never saw herself as a homewrecker. She hadn’t stolen anyone. Paul had walked into her life on his own. He’d chosen her. All she did was stand there, unassuming, undemanding.
Time passed. Paul visited regularly, bringing flowers, sometimes gifts for his children—not hers, of course. Emily had no children. The doctors had been painfully clear years ago: infertility. That was what had ended her only marriage.
Then—a miracle. Unexplainable, absurd. A pregnancy, at nearly forty. She wept with joy. When Emily’s parents found out they’d be grandparents, they didn’t even ask about the father. They just celebrated, promised to help. And Emily? She was certain Paul wouldn’t leave. He loved her. He’d said so a hundred times.
“File for divorce,” she told him one evening. “Let’s be a proper family.”
He went quiet. Then:
“I need time… I can’t just—”
She gave him a week. Then another. But Paul started vanishing. Ignoring calls. Dodging her after work. One day, she turned up outside his house—just stood there, unable to walk away.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Paul snapped when he saw her.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re suffocating me! I *asked* for time! You’re pushing, you’re cornering me!”
Emily fell silent, staring at him like he was a stranger.
“So… that’s it? You won’t stay?” she whispered.
He looked away. And then she said:
“We were never really acquainted. Forget me. Forget us. There *is* no ‘us’ anymore.”
She turned and left. Didn’t look back.
Emily had a daughter. Beautiful, curly-haired, with Paul’s eyes. But when she held her, all she felt was love. No fear. No regret. Just quiet, stubborn happiness.
Paul tried to reach out—called, begged to see his little girl. Emily refused.
“You made your choice,” she said. “Don’t force yourself into her life now. She *has* a father. A real one.”
She wasn’t lying. Six months later, she met a man—gentle, steady, a little older. He didn’t pry. He just loved her, loved her daughter. And the little girl? She called him “Daddy” almost immediately. It all fell into place, as if the universe had whispered: *This is how it was always meant to be.*
Two years passed. Spring. A park. Paul was strolling, lost in thought, when he spotted her—Emily. With a man. And a child.
The man was carrying the little girl. She giggled, tugging at his ear while Emily, in a sundress, watched them with such quiet joy.
“Give Daddy a kiss, sweetheart,” Emily murmured. “Look how tired he is from carrying you.”
Paul froze. Couldn’t breathe. That was her. His daughter. Just like his boys had been at that age—bright, curly-haired, *alive*. And next to her, a man who wasn’t him. And Emily, who wasn’t his anymore.
She saw him. Their eyes met. Then she turned away, as if he were nothing. As if they’d never known each other at all.
And he understood—she’d kept her word.
They really *had* never been acquainted.
And now, they never would be.
