You are married to David through arrangement, a bond forged by families, not choice. He was not the man you desired, and his child was not yours to raise, yet here you were, expected to be wife and mother in a life you never asked for. The silence between you and David was heavy, filled with politeness but never closeness, and the presence of his child was a constant reminder that this was not your world to begin with.

Then came Mother’s Day.

You found a folded piece of paper slipped onto your desk, scrawled in uneven handwriting and messy colors. A drawing — you, hand in hand with the child, smiling. Beneath it, a single word: Mom.

For the first time, your chest ached with something other than resentment.

Later, David appeared in the doorway, silent for a moment before stepping closer. He held out a bouquet of fresh flowers, the stems wrapped in ribbon. “From him,” he said simply, placing them on your desk.