My Life as the Counterfeit Wife

"Hi, Murphy," Ursula chirped, raising her free hand in a cheerful wave. "Long time no see."

Rocco dropped Ursula's hand as if it were on fire and rushed to my side.

The words tumbled out of him in a panicked rush. "Murphy—what are you doing here? This isn't what it looks like. Ursula just volunteers here. She helps with all the kids. I was just talking about Poppy's enrollment..."

He shifted Poppy in his arms, holding her out as if the child herself could be a shield.

"This is Poppy. See? Isn't she adorable? She's the best-behaved child in the school."

I nodded, my hand reaching out to stroke her cheek.

"She looks so much like you. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was your biological daughter."

But the scent was unmistakable. Ursula's bespoke perfume—cloying and expensive—clung to the child's clothes, so strong it felt like it had soaked into her very skin.

Rocco opened his mouth to say something, but Poppy suddenly pointed to a star-patterned tattoo on his wrist.

"Mommy said," she announced in her small voice, "Daddy got this for me."

That tattoo was my fifth-anniversary gift from him. A symbol of the night we met.

Rocco's face went pale, his breath catching. The fear radiating from him was palpable.

"Don't misunderstand," he stammered, the excuse flimsy. "Ursula was just playing a game with her. She's great with kids. Poppy's just a child, she doesn't know what she's saying. Once the adoption is final, I'll… I'll set her straight."

But the desperation in his voice only sharpened the pain in my chest.

If he was so afraid of hurting me, why lie? Why trap me in this false life, pretending we were soulmates while building a family with another woman?

Why let me be the subject of gossip and pitying stares?

"Don't worry. I'm not misunderstanding anything." My voice was light, almost serene. "Go finish the paperwork. I'll wait for you in the car."

Rocco relaxed so visibly it was like watching the sun break through clouds, a relieved smile spreading across his face.

"Wait for me, okay? I'll be right back."

I turned and walked toward the parking lot, the weight in my chest growing heavier with each step. I passed a few socialites who didn't bother to lower their voices.

"That poor woman. She has no idea, does she?"

"I heard Rocco is here almost every day with Ursula. And they have a legal trust agreement. Doesn't that make Murphy the homewrecker?"

Their words clawed at my back, but I didn't stop. I didn't flinch. I just took out my phone with trembling fingers and sent a message to a number I hadn't contacted in years.

[Dad, I'm tired. I want to come home.]

Not long after I got home, my father, Marcus, initiated a video call.

We hadn't seen each other in five years. His hair was much grayer than I remembered.

"My darling daughter," he said, his voice thick with a concern that transcended time and distance. "Has Rocco been mistreating you?"

A lump formed in my throat. I tried to hold it together, but the tears betrayed me, streaming down my face.

"I've missed you so much, Dad…"

The fight that had torn us apart felt like a lifetime ago, his furious words—"Get out! You're no daughter of mine!"—still echoing in my memory. His anger hadn't been at me, I realized now, but for me. He still loved me.

He let out a long, weary sigh, his eyes filled with a sad warmth.

"No matter what, this will always be your home. I'll send someone to pick you up tomorrow."

After we hung up, I lay awake all night. Sleep wouldn't come. I was drowning in guilt for what I had done to my family, for abandoning everything to chase a man who had just been a mirage.