We were never acquainted…
From the very beginning, Emily understood her place in Paul’s life. She was not his wife, nor the mother of his children, nor his lawful choice. She was his mistress. The woman to whom he came to rest, body and soul. The woman he visited not for duty, but for ease and quiet.
She asked for nothing. No divorce, no promises. Only a little warmth. She accepted Paul as he was—married, distant, yet kind to her. Sometimes he brought groceries, sometimes helped with repairs. Sometimes he took her hand and told her he loved her. And it was enough.
Emily never considered herself a homewrecker. She had stolen no one. Paul had chosen to come. Chosen her. She was simply there. Without demands.
Time passed. Paul visited regularly. He brought flowers, sometimes bought things for the children—not hers, of course. His own. Emily had no children. The doctors had long ago given their firm diagnosis: barren. It was what had ended her only marriage.
Then came the miracle. A real, inexplicable one. Pregnancy. Nearly at forty. She wept with joy. When Emily’s parents learned they would be grandparents, they didn’t even ask who the father was. They simply rejoiced. Promised to help. And Emily… She was certain Paul wouldn’t leave. He loved her. He had said it dozens of times.
“File for divorce,” she told him one day. “We’ll be a proper family.”
He said nothing. Then replied, “I need time… I can’t just—”
Emily gave him a week. Then another. But Paul began to vanish. Went silent. Ignored her calls. Made excuses. And one day, she went to his house. Stood by the door. She couldn’t help it.
“What are you doing here?” Paul snapped when he saw her.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re suffocating me! Can’t you hear me? I asked you to wait! You’re pressuring me—putting me in a corner!”
Emily fell silent. Stared at him, not recognizing 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 ‘us’ anymore.”
She left without looking back.
Emily had a daughter. Beautiful, curly-haired, with Paul’s eyes. But when she held her, she felt only love. Nothing else. No fear, no sorrow, no regret. Only joy.
Paul tried to reach out several times. Called. Wanted to see his daughter. Emily refused.
“You made your choice,” she said. “Don’t remind us of yourself now. She has a father. A real one.”
She didn’t lie. Six months later, she met a man. Quiet, steady, a little older. He asked no questions. He simply loved her and the girl. And the girl called him Papa straightaway. It all happened as if by fate—as though someone above had whispered, Now, it will be right.
Two years passed. Spring. A park. Paul walked along the path, lost in thought, when suddenly, he saw her. Emily. With the man. And the child.
The man held the little girl in his arms. She laughed, tugging at his ear. Emily, in a light dress, watched them happily and murmured, “Kiss Papa, darling. Look, he’s tired from carrying you.”
Paul stopped. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. There she was. His daughter. His little girl. Just like his boys had once been—curly, bright, full of life. And beside her, a stranger. And Emily, no longer his.
She saw Paul. Their eyes met. But she turned away. As if she didn’t know him. As if he had never been part of her life.
He understood then—she had kept her word. They truly had never been acquainted.
And never would be.
