They had never truly known each other…
From the very beginning, Rosamund understood her place in Edward’s life. She was not his wife, nor the mother of his children, nor the woman he had chosen with vows and duty. She was his mistress—a woman who offered him a refuge for his weary soul, a place of quiet and ease.
She asked for nothing. No divorce, no promises. Only the warmth of his presence. She accepted Edward as he was: married, distant, yet kind to her. Sometimes he brought groceries, other times he helped with repairs. Occasionally, he would take her hand and whisper that he loved her. And that was enough.
Rosamund never saw herself as a homewrecker. She had stolen no one. Edward had come to her of his own will. She had simply been there, without demands.
Time passed. Edward visited often, bringing flowers, sometimes small gifts for his children—not hers, of course. Rosamund had none. Long ago, doctors had delivered their verdict with cold certainty: she would never bear a child. It was that very truth which had shattered her only marriage.
Then came the miracle. Unexplainable, undeniable. A pregnancy, so late in life, at nearly forty. She wept with joy. Her parents, learning they would be grandparents, never once questioned the father. They only rejoiced, promising their support. And Rosamund… She was certain Edward would not abandon her. He loved her. He had said it a hundred times.
“Leave her,” she told him one evening. “Let us be a proper family.”
He fell silent. Then answered,
“I need time. I can’t just—”
She gave him a week. Then another. But Edward began to vanish. He stopped calling, made excuses, disappeared after work. Finally, she went to his home, standing outside the door of his building, unable to stay away.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped when he saw her.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re suffocating me! I told you to wait! You’re pushing, you’re making this impossible!”
Rosamund went quiet. Staring at him, she no longer recognized the man before her.
“So you won’t be with us?” she asked softly.
He turned away. And then she said,
“We were never acquainted. Forget me. Forget us. There is no ‘we’ anymore.”
She left without looking back.
Rosamund gave birth to a girl—beautiful, curly-haired, with Edward’s eyes. But when she held her, she felt only love. No fear, no bitterness, no regret. Just joy.
Edward tried more than once to reach her. He called, begged to see his daughter. Rosamund refused.
“You made your choice,” she said. “Do not remind us of you now. She has a father. A real one.”
She did not lie. Within months, she met another man—quiet, steady, a little older. He asked no questions. He simply loved her and the little girl. And the child, without hesitation, called him Papa. It happened as if by fate, as though some unseen hand had finally set things right.
Two years later, in the soft light of spring, Edward walked through the park, lost in thought. Then he saw them—Rosamund with the man, and the child.
The man carried the little girl, who giggled as she tugged at his ear. Rosamund, in a flowery dress, watched them with quiet happiness before murmuring,
“Give Papa a kiss, darling. He must be tired of carrying you.”
Edward froze. He could not breathe, could not move. This was his daughter. His little girl. Just like his sons had once been—bright, lively, full of laughter. And beside her stood another man, another life. And Rosamund, who was no longer his.
She saw him then. Their eyes met. But she turned away, as though he were a stranger, as though he had never been part of her world.
He understood. She had kept her word.
They had never truly known each other.
And now, they never would.
