When Love Ends, So Does Mercy

My older brother ran away the day before his wedding, abandoning not just his bride-to-be but also the newborn daughter she had just given birth to a month prior. Afraid of offending the Roger family—one of the most powerful in Riverford—our parents panicked. They begged me to take my brother’s place and go through with the wedding in his stead. So, I did. From that day forward, I took on a role that was never meant to be mine. I became a stand-in husband and a reluctant father. But I didn’t do it halfway. I cared for Sara, my brother’s bride, as if she were my own wife. I raised Elise, their child, like she was mine. Whether it was bottle feedings at 3 a.m. or rushing home from work when she had a fever, I was there. I handled everything—big and small, mundane or urgent—with silent dedication. Ten years passed like that. And in those ten years, people praised me. They said I was the perfect husband. The ideal father. No one remembered that I was a substitute. Maybe even I had started to forget. Then, three days before Elise’s tenth birthday, everything unraveled. I had come home early from work. As I passed by the study, I saw Sara crouched beside Elise, her hand gently resting on the child’s head. A motherly gesture—warm, tender. But her expression told another story. Her eyes were sharp with loathing. “You’re old enough now,” she whispered. “Stay away from your uncle from now on. If it weren’t for him, your father would’ve never run away. He would’ve been here. He would’ve stayed.” My breath caught in my throat. She wasn’t done. “Don’t worry. I’ve already found your father. Soon, the three of us will be together again.” Elise slowly raised her head. Her eyes, once so trusting, locked on her mother’s with confusion—and then comprehension. She looked like something inside her had just snapped into place. “So… Dad didn’t want me because of Uncle Oliver?” That was when they noticed me standing at the doorway. Elise’s face twisted in fury. She ran at me with no warning and shoved me hard. My body slammed into the stair railing and I stumbled, falling awkwardly down the last few steps. Pain shot through my ankle. From the top of the stairs, she glared down at me, her small frame trembling. “I hate you! This is all your fault!” By nightfall, I had a sprained ankle, a bruised shoulder and a heart that felt like it had been crushed. I limped to the phone, dialed an international number I hadn’t touched in a decade. “Professor Murray,” I said, my voice low, “I’m ready to join the research project.”