Gemma had always known her place in Philip’s life. Not as his wife, not as the mother of his children, not as his lawful choice. But as his mistress. The woman who offered him comfort for both body and soul. The one he came to not out of obligation, but for ease and quiet.
She asked for nothing—no divorce, no vows. Only a little warmth. She took Philip as he was: married, distant, yet kind to her. Sometimes he brought groceries, other times he helped fix things around her flat. Occasionally he’d take her hand and whisper that he loved her. And that was enough.
Gemma never saw herself as a homewrecker. She hadn’t stolen anyone away. Philip had come to her of his own will. Chosen her. She was simply there—without demands, without expectations.
Time passed. Philip visited regularly. He brought flowers, sometimes bought things for his children—not hers, of course. Gemma had no children. The doctors had long ago given their firm verdict: infertility. It was what had shattered her only marriage.
Then came the miracle. Unexplainable, real. Pregnancy. At nearly forty. She wept with joy. Her parents, upon learning they’d be grandparents, didn’t even ask who the father was. They just rejoiced, promising to help. And Gemma… she was certain—Philip wouldn’t leave her. He loved her. He’d said it a hundred times.
“File for divorce,” she told him one day. “We can be a proper family.”
He went silent. Then replied,
“I need time… I can’t just—”
Gemma gave him a week. Then another. But Philip began to vanish. He stopped answering, disappeared after work, made excuses, never called. One day, she stood outside his house—just stood there by the front steps. She couldn’t help it.
“What are you doing here?!” he snapped when he saw her.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re suffocating me! I asked for time! You’re pushing, you’re pressuring me!”
Gemma fell quiet. Stared at him, not recognizing the man before her.
“So you won’t choose us?” she whispered.
He turned away. And then she said,
“We were never acquainted. Forget me. Forget us. There is no ‘we’ anymore.”
She walked off. Didn’t look back.
Gemma had a girl. Beautiful, curly-haired, with Philip’s eyes. But when she held her, she felt only love—nothing else. No fear, no pain, no regret. Just happiness.
Philip tried to reach out, more than once. Called. Asked to see his daughter. Gemma refused.
“You made your choice,” she said. “Don’t remind her you exist. She has a father. A real one.”
It wasn’t a lie. Six months later, she met a man—quiet, steady, a little older. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He just loved her, loved the girl. And the girl called him Daddy at once, as if it had always been meant to be. As if some higher force had whispered: Now, everything will fall into place.
Two years passed. Spring. A park. Philip wandered down the path, lost in thought—until he saw her. Gemma. With a man. And a child.
The man carried the little girl on his shoulders. She laughed, tugging playfully at his ear. Gemma, in a light sundress, watched them with contentment and murmured,
“Give Daddy a kiss, sweetheart. Look, he’s tired from carrying you.”
Philip froze. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. That was her. His daughter. His little girl. Just like his sons had been at that age—curly-haired, bright, alive. And beside her, another man. A man who wasn’t a stranger anymore. And Gemma—who wasn’t his.
She saw Philip. 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’d kept her word. They truly had never been acquainted.
And never would be.
