Emily had always been the other woman. Luck hadn’t favoured her in marriage—she’d waited until her thirties to find a man, only to discover too late that Paul was already taken. At first, he hadn’t mentioned his wife, but once he saw how deeply Emily had fallen for him, he made no effort to hide it.
She never once blamed him. Instead, she cursed herself for her weakness, for clinging to a love that led nowhere. There was a gnawing shame in not having found a husband in time, as if the years slipping by were entirely her fault. Yet by any measure, Emily wasn’t unattractive—not a beauty, perhaps, but pleasant-looking, her soft curves lending her a warmth that some might mistake for maturity.
Staying as Paul’s mistress was unbearable, but the thought of letting go terrified her more. Loneliness loomed like a shadow.
Then, one afternoon, her cousin Simon dropped by unannounced. He was in town briefly for work, squeezing in a visit between meetings. They sat at the kitchen table, eating sandwiches, chatting like old times—until Emily, unsteady with emotion, confessed everything.
Midway through her tears, her neighbour knocked, asking her to come and admire some new purchases. Emily slipped out for twenty minutes—just as the doorbell rang again.
Simon answered, expecting her return. Instead, he found Paul on the doorstep, stiff with surprise at the sight of a broad-shouldered man in a tracksuit, chewing a ham sandwich.
“Emily here?” Paul managed, awkward.
“She’s in the bath,” Simon lied smoothly, then stepped closer, gripping Paul’s collar. “And who’s asking? The married bloke she’s been crying over? Listen sharp—if I catch you round here again, I’ll toss you down the stairs myself.”
Paul fled, stumbling in his haste.
When Emily returned, Simon told her what he’d done. Her face crumpled. “He won’t come back now,” she whispered, sinking onto the sofa, hands pressed to her eyes.
“Damn right he won’t,” Simon said, unmoved. “Enough of this. Got a proper man in mind for you—a widower back home. Women swarm him, but he’s kept to himself. When I come back next week, we’ll go. You’ll meet him.”
Emily balked. “Just like that? Some stranger? I can’t—it’s humiliating!”
Simon scoffed. “Humiliating? Sleeping with another woman’s husband—that’s shame. Meeting a free man isn’t. We’re going.”
A few days later, they were in his village. His wife, Lucy, had set up a birthday feast in the garden. Neighbours, friends—and Simon’s mate, the widower James—gathered. Emily had known the others for years, but James was new. Quiet. Reserved.
“Still grieving, poor man,” she thought later, watching him. “Good hearts like that are rare.”
A week passed. On a slow Sunday, her doorbell chimed. Unexpected.
James stood there, clutching a bag. “Was in town for errands,” he murmured, rehearsed. “Thought I’d stop by.”
She invited him in, suspicion flickering beneath surprise. Over tea, they skirted small talk—weather, market prices. But as he rose to leave, James hesitated at the door, then turned abruptly.
“Emily… all week, I’ve thought of you. Had to see you again.”
She flushed, stunned.
“We barely know each other,” she whispered.
“Doesn’t matter. If—if you don’t mind me saying… I’ve got a daughter. Eight years old. She’s with her gran now.” His hands trembled slightly.
Emily’s voice softened. “A daughter… I’d love one of my own.”
Heartened, James reached for her. The kiss was tender, uncertain—until she melted into it. Tears glimmered when they parted.
“Was that… wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. It feels right. No stolen moments this time.”
They met every weekend after. Two months later, they married, settling in the village. Emily found work at the nursery. A year on, their daughter arrived—two little girls now, cherished equally. Love thrived, deepening with time, like aged wine.
At gatherings, Simon would smirk at Emily.
“Not a bad match, eh, Em? Told you I’d pick well. You’re glowing—trust your big cousin next time.”
And she would laugh, bright with happiness, knowing he was right.
Elena Shalamova.
