I was thirty-nine. Behind me lay three long romances, each of which ended the same way: promises, exhaustion, disappointment. I stopped believing in fairy tales. Love began to seem like something that only happens in books — beautiful, but fictional.
And then he appeared — Steve. An old friend of my father’s.
I remembered him from my youth: tall, reserved, with a slightly mocking gaze and a calm confidence that was captivating from the very first moment. He was forty-eight, and he looked as if time had passed him by. We met by chance — in a café near my father’s house. He came up, smiled, and in that instant I felt a strange warmth, as if after many years of wandering I had finally come home.
We began to see each other more often. His attention was unobtrusive, but there was something deep, almost hypnotic about it. Steve knew how to listen, knew when to be silent and when to joke. He never talked much about himself, but every word he said sounded sincere. Six months later, he proposed to me.
My father was beaming — to him, Steve was almost like a brother.
‘He’s a reliable man,’ he said. ‘You’ll finally be happy.’
The wedding was small but beautiful: white roses, quiet music, simple vows, and his eyes — calm, confident, a little sad.
After the ceremony, we arrived at his house—a two-storey cottage on the outskirts of town. Everything was perfect: the fireplace, the smell of fresh wood, quiet music playing in the background. I went to the bathroom to take off my dress and freshen up. When I returned to the bedroom, Steve was standing by the window with his back to me.
‘Steve?’ I called softly.
He didn’t turn around right away.
‘I need to tell you something,’ he finally said. His voice sounded strange.
I moved closer. There was an old envelope on the table next to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have told you earlier.’
He opened the envelope and took out a photograph. It was of a woman who looked very much like me. The same jawline, the same eyes, even the mole on her cheek was in the same place.
‘Who is this?’ I whispered.
‘Her name was Emily,’ he replied. ‘My wife.’
I felt the ground disappear beneath my feet.
‘You had a wife? You never told me…’
He nodded. ‘She died seven years ago.’
He moved closer to me. His gaze was full of pain, but there was something else in it too — anxiety, fear.
“When I saw you for the first time after all these years, I… couldn’t believe it. You were like a reflection of Emily. The same smile. The same habits. Even the way you spoke.
‘Did you marry me because of that resemblance?’
He was silent. And that silence was worse than any answer.
I took a step back, feeling a lump rising in my throat. A thought flashed through my mind: run. But then I noticed a frame on the dresser that I hadn’t seen before. A photograph. Emily and Steve. And behind them — my father.
‘Why… is my father in this photo?’
Steve turned pale.
‘Because he was Emily’s friend. They… knew each other very well.’
‘What do you mean, very well?’ My voice trembled.
He looked away. ‘Your mother knew. She knew everything.’
My heart was beating so hard I could hardly breathe.
‘Are you saying that…’
‘Yes,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘Emily was your sister.’
Silence fell like a concrete slab. The wind outside slammed against the window, a door slammed somewhere. I backed up against the wall.
‘This is crazy,’ I whispered. ‘This is a lie!’
Steve sighed and took out another piece of paper — an old document. A birth certificate. Emily Watson. Father — Michael Watson. The same Michael, my father.
My world collapsed.
‘Why did you do this?’ I asked, feeling my voice become hoarse.
He was silent for a long time, then said:
‘Because I had to understand. Why she died.’
‘What…?’
He walked over to the chest of drawers, pulled out the bottom drawer and took out a black box. Inside was an old tape recorder.
‘This recording is her last message.’ I found it in her car after the accident. She didn’t die for no reason. She was going to meet your father that evening. She wanted to tell him the truth — that he was her real father.
I didn’t believe a word, but my chest tightened with fear.
Steve pressed the button.
A woman’s voice came from the tape — soft, painfully familiar.
‘If anything happens to me… tell him I forgive him. And that I’m glad he has you, Jenna.’
I fell onto the bed. Emily said my name.
‘I thought,’ Steve continued, “that if I got to know you better, I would understand why all this happened. But instead of answers, I… fell in love again.
He knelt down and buried his head in his hands. “I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. You’re a reminder of her, and at the same time, you’re all I have left that’s real.
I looked at him, feeling nothing. Only coldness.
‘That’s sick love, Steve.’
He looked up. ‘Is there any other kind, if everything we love is always connected with pain?’
I didn’t answer.
A week later, I left — without saying goodbye, without explanation. My father tried to call, but I didn’t answer the phone.
Three months passed.
One day, I received a letter. The handwriting was Steve’s.
Inside was a short note:
‘You were right. But now I know the truth. Your mother didn’t just know — she arranged it all. Look at the back of the photo.’
I turned over that very photo of Emily. On the back was a faded inscription:
‘To Jane. Thank you for everything. I promise he’ll never find out.’
My heart froze. Jane was my mother’s name.
An hour later, I called my father.
But an unfamiliar voice answered.
‘I’m sorry,’ the man said. ‘Michael Watson passed away last night.’
The phone fell from my hands.
I drove to Steve’s house. The house was empty, but in the basement I found something that changed everything: a stack of letters, old photographs, and one word written in blood on the wall:
‘Forgiven.’
