**Diary Entry**
I always knew what I was to Paul—never his wife, never the mother of his children, never the woman bound to him by vows. Just the woman he came to for peace, for quiet, for escape. The one who asked for nothing but a little warmth now and then.
He never promised me a future. No divorce, no grand declarations. Just the occasional groceries, help with the flat, a hand held in the dark with whispered words of love. And for a long time, that was enough.
I never saw myself as the other woman. I didn’t steal him—he chose to come to me. I merely existed in his shadow, making no demands.
Time passed. He visited often, bringing flowers, sometimes gifts for his children. Not mine—I had none. The doctors had been clear years ago: barren. That was why my marriage had crumbled.
Then, the impossible happened. A miracle, unexplained. Pregnant at thirty-nine. I wept with joy. My parents, overjoyed at becoming grandparents, never asked about the father. They just promised to help. And I—I was certain Paul wouldn’t leave me. He loved me. He’d said it a hundred times.
*”Leave her,”* I told him one evening. *”We could be a proper family.”*
He was silent. Then, *”I need time… I can’t just walk away.”*
I gave him a week. Then another. But he vanished. Didn’t call, didn’t answer, slipping away after work. One evening, I waited outside his house, unable to stay away.
*”What the hell are you doing here?”* he snapped when he saw me.
*”Waiting for you.”*
*”You’re suffocating me! I asked for time, and you’re cornering me!”*
I stared, hardly recognising him. *”So you won’t stay?”* I whispered.
He looked away. And that’s when I said it—*”We were never acquainted. Forget me. Forget us. There is no ‘us’ anymore.”*
I left without glancing back.
My daughter was born beautiful, curls like his, eyes just as bright. But when I held her, I felt only love—no fear, no regret. Just happiness.
Paul tried reaching out later, asking to see her. I refused. *”You made your choice,”* I said. *”She has a father now. A real one.”*
And she did. Six months later, I met James—quiet, steady, kind. He never pried. He just loved us both. My daughter called him *Daddy* before we even knew it was happening. As if the universe had whispered, *Now, it’s right.*
Two years later, spring sunlight dappled the park paths. Paul was walking, lost in thought, when he saw us—James carrying our laughing girl, tugging at his ear. Me in a summer dress, smiling as I murmured, *”Give Daddy a kiss, love. Look how tired he is.”*
Paul froze. Stared. That was his daughter—his, just like his boys had been. But she belonged to another man now. And I was no longer his.
Our eyes met. I turned away, as if he were a stranger.
And he understood. I’d kept my word.
We were never acquainted.
And we never would be again.
