All Amazing Babies

Four rooms, a bright kitchen, and a living-room the size of a dance floor—Sasha led Alena through the new flat like a tour guide showing off a museum of his own achievements.

“Look at the scale of it all!” he swept his arm across the living-room. “Now every relative can fit in—and we’ll still have space left over. Mum says she’s dreamed of a place where the whole family can gather.”

Alena listened and nodded. A twenty-year mortgage was serious, of course, but at least the home was theirs—no more rentals, no more living with parents. After five years in a studio whose kitchen was hardly bigger than a wardrobe, this felt like a real palace.

The first months disappeared into renovations and furnishing. Full of enthusiasm, Sasha chose wallpaper, argued with builders, and sketched furniture layouts. He proudly showed every stage to friends who dropped by—each with a bottle—to toast the new place.

Quietly, Alena rejoiced over the new kitchen appliances: dinner could now be cooked in half the time.

“Can you imagine the feasts we’ll throw?” Sasha repeated again and again. “Everyone in my family loves getting together! Mum adores big family gatherings.”

Alena could imagine. Her mother-in-law, Svetlana Pavlovna, already liked to appear for surprise inspections—to see how her precious son was living. What would happen now?

They celebrated the move modestly—Sasha wanted a huge party, but Alena insisted they settle in first.

“We’ll have time,” she said. “Let’s unpack every box and put everything in its place.”

That conversation happened on a Friday. On Sunday morning the phone rang.

“Sashenka, we thought we’d drop by and see how you’ve settled,” his mother’s voice sounded so innocent that Alena instantly understood—they were prepared for a full visit.

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked tensely.

“Mum and Natasha. They won’t stay long,” Sasha waved it off. “Just tea.”

“Just tea” stretched into the whole day. The moment she crossed the threshold, Svetlana Pavlovna began giving orders:

“Alena, put the kettle on. What do you have for tea? Nothing? Well, I brought something.”

She settled into an armchair like a queen on her throne and pulled a box of pastries from her bag.

“I don’t eat these shop-bought things,” she declared, “but I bought them for you.”

Natasha, Sasha’s sister, immediately set off on a tour of the flat.

“Such… interesting wallpaper,” she commented in the bedroom. “An unusual choice.”

Alena let it slide. Wallpaper was wallpaper—neutral grey with a faint pattern.

“And what kind of tiles do you have in the kitchen? I’d never have chosen those,” Natasha ran a finger along the worktop. “Is white even practical?”

By evening, when the visitors finally left, Alena felt wrung out like a sponge. She cleared cups, washed pastry plates, and said to Sasha,

“Next time they should warn us, all right? I’d at least fix my hair properly.”

Sasha just laughed. “Come on, it’s my family—no formalities.”

The next visit didn’t take long to arrive. A week later Kolya—Sasha’s brother—appeared at the door with his wife Irina and their two kids.

“Hi-hi! Mum said you’re living in style now,” Kolya clapped Sasha on the shoulder and barged in without wiping his feet.

The children scattered through the rooms, while Irina perched on the sofa, looking around with interest.

“We’re only here for an hour,” she said. “Just to have a look.”

That “hour” lasted until late evening. The kids tore around like two little hurricanes. One knocked over a vase of flowers, soaking the new rug. Alena rushed to mop up, but Irina only waved a hand:

“Oh, it’ll dry. It’s just water! Kids will be kids.”

At ten o’clock, when the guests finally gathered their things, Alena felt a fierce urge to bolt the door and never open it again.

“Great evening,” Sasha yawned after the door closed. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Sometime,” Alena echoed, staring at the stain on the carpet.

But “sometime” came the very next week. And the week after. And the one after that.

Sunday visits slowly became tradition. Sometimes Sasha’s mother showed up with Natasha, sometimes Kolya arrived with his clan, and sometimes they all came together. Every time, Alena ended up at the stove.

“You won’t serve guests an empty table, will you?” Sasha was baffled whenever she protested. “That’s rude. Whip something up. You know there’ll probably be visitors on Sunday—stock up for everyone.”

By the tenth Sunday Alena had learned to get up an hour early so lunch would be ready before the guests arrived. By the twentieth she stopped making her own weekend plans. By the thirtieth she counted down the days to the next visit with dread, like waiting for an inevitable disaster.

Sasha openly enjoyed the gatherings. He glowed when his mum praised Alena’s cooking, or when Kolya looked around the spacious living-room with awe and envy.

“It’s like a good restaurant now!” he boasted. “Always a laid table, pleasant music, room for everyone.”

 

Alena just smiled through her fatigue. At the college where she lectured on literature, people thought her patient and gentle. Students loved her classes; colleagues valued her calm. No one saw how, every Sunday, she turned into a workhorse pulling an endless cart of obligations she’d never wanted.

By the end of the first year she stopped asking questions. She spent half of every Friday inventing menus, shopped on Saturday, and rose with the first light on Sunday to cook. By year two she could smile so convincingly no one saw the strain. By year three she’d almost accepted that her home had become a public thoroughfare and she herself a silent attachment to the stove.

Three years. One hundred fifty-six Sundays. Thousands of hours spent cooking, setting tables, cleaning up. Alena counted the time the way prisoners count the days to freedom.

Her mother-in-law gradually came to see the visits as a given. She no longer asked if she might come—she simply arrived with a box of chocolates or a supermarket cake. Sometimes on Saturday, sometimes Sunday.

“I was just passing by,” she’d say, heading straight for the kitchen. “Thought I’d pop in on the kids.”

Every time, Alena mentally inventoried the fridge, guessing what could be made quickly from what was on hand. Even if her mother-in-law turned up unannounced, there had to be food in the house—an unwritten rule after all these years. And if Alena didn’t manage to cook something in time, Sasha always reminded her once the guests had left.

“Mum loves your casserole,” he’d say with reproach. “And you couldn’t be bothered to make anything decent. They don’t come every day—only on weekends.”

“They come every Sunday, Sasha. And often without notice,” Alena tried to argue.

“They’re my family,” he snapped. “I want them to feel at home here.”

And Alena wondered more and more—where she was supposed to feel at home.

She knew altogether too much about this family’s tastes: his mother hated anything spicy, Natasha wouldn’t touch onion, Kolya accepted only Olivier salad, and his kids turned up their noses at anything not resembling fast food.

Weekdays were calmer. Alena taught at the college, Sasha worked at his office, their son Denis was at school. Evenings they ate together and watched films; sometimes Alena managed to read. But once the weekend arrived, order crumbled and the house filled with other people’s voices, requests, demands.

She tried to talk to Sasha.

“Could we meet up less often?” she ventured. “Maybe once a month?”

“What?” he was genuinely surprised. “Why? Mum likes visiting us.”

“But it’s every week, Sasha. I’m exhausted.”

“Exhausted from what?” he stared at her. “You cook every day anyway.”

“Compare making a simple dinner for three to a feast for ten!” Alena burst out. “Your mum wants one thing, Natasha another, Kolya something else, and the kids won’t eat anything. It’s not just the cooking—it’s a whole day of tension when I can’t rest, read, or even take a shower in peace.”

Sasha frowned, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Mum says a proper woman should be able to host guests,” he said slowly. “It’s a sign of a good homemaker. You wouldn’t want her to think you’re—”

“Think I’m what?” Alena cut in. “A bad homemaker? A bad wife? Or simply a person with her own needs and wishes?”

“Don’t twist my words,” he winced. “I just want a normal, close-knit family. For Mum and the others to feel good here.”

“And what about me feeling good? Does that fit your definition of a normal family?”

Sasha didn’t reply. He just waved a hand and left the room—the conversation over before it had begun, like so many before it.

She submitted. Or nearly did. Outwardly, yes—she no longer argued, rose early every Sunday, and cooked for the crowd. But inside, irritation and incomprehension kept piling up.
“You’re acting so strange lately,” Sasha remarked one day. “So quiet and withdrawn.”

“I’ve always been quiet,” she replied.

“No, you used to be… different,” he tried to find the right words. “More cheerful, perhaps.”

Alёna fell silent. What can you say when no one really listens anyway? What can you say when constant tension and endless work for the public leave you with no strength even for a smile? When exhaustion piles up like a snowball, pressing and pressing…

That fateful Sunday, nothing heralded any change. An ordinary day, ordinary guests, ordinary conversation at the table. Her mother-in-law had arrived early—to “help,” which in her language meant to sit in the kitchen and dole out advice. Natasha had brought another box of candies, which was immediately opened and devoured with tea. Kolya, along with his wife and children, joined for lunch.

From the morning, Alёna felt a vague irritability. Not anger, not wrath—just a dull, endless weariness, like a toothache that just wouldn’t quit.

“Alёnchka, why are you so sullen?” her mother-in-law inquired as she watched Alёna slicing vegetables. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Everything’s fine,” Alёna answered without looking up.

“And what kind of salad are you going to make? With mayonnaise? You know, I’m on a diet.”

“Dressing on the side—I remember.”

“And will you roast or fry the chicken?”

“I’ll roast it.”

“Mmm. I much prefer it fried.”

Alёna silently opened the refrigerator and pulled out a second chicken. So, it would have to be done both ways. Well, not the first time.

By one o’clock the table was set. Roasted chicken, fried chicken, potatoes, two types of salad, sauces, bread, drinks. Alёna called everyone to the table.

“Oh, how beautiful!” Natasha exclaimed as she sat down. “You’re always amazing.”

Alёna forced a weak smile and remained at the stove—she needed to take the pie out of the oven.

“Alёn, where’s the salt?” Sasha called out to her.

“It’s on the table.”

“I don’t see it.”

Alёna approached and silently placed the salt shaker right in front of him.

“Alёnchka,” her mother-in-law interjected immediately, “is there any sauce for the chicken? It seems a bit dry, doesn’t it?”

“Right there in the sauce boat,” Alёna nodded in that direction.

“And what about the garlic one? You know I get heartburn from garlic.”

Alёna returned to the kitchen and made another sauce, this time without garlic. Yet again today, yet again in these three years.

Returning to the living room, she found that everyone was already enthusiastically devouring the meal, talking loudly. Her place at the table had been taken by her mother-in-law’s purse.

“Oh, sorry,” the woman feigned a sudden start upon noticing Alёna’s look. “I just put my things here. I’ll remove it right now.”

Alёna set the sauce on the table and sat on the edge of a chair. She wasn’t hungry. She wanted to lie down, close her eyes, and have everything vanish. To have silence descend.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Sasha asked with a mouthful. “It’ll get cold.”

“Later,” she shook her head.

 

The conversation at the table went on as usual. They discussed someone’s wedding, then rising prices, then the children’s success at school. Alёna could only catch fragments of phrases, as if through cotton.

“Alёna, where’s that wonderful mustard of yours?” Kolya suddenly asked. “Remember, last time it was so sharp you’d lick your fingers.”

“I’ll bring it right now,” she said as she stood and went into the kitchen.

But there was no mustard in the refrigerator. Apparently, it was finished; maybe she’d forgotten to buy it. Or not forgotten, just overlooked—amid an endless cycle of shopping and cooking, it wasn’t surprising to miss something.

“No mustard,” she said upon returning.

“What do you mean, no mustard?” Kolya theatrically flailed his arms. “How can I live without mustard? Oh, you’ve completely disrespected your guests!”

It was a joke. She knew it was a joke. But something inside her trembled, stretched to its limit like a string just before it snapped.

“Alёn,” Sasha said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “there’s still some compote in the fridge. Bring some, will you?”

Silently, she went and brought the compote. She poured it into glasses and returned to her seat.

“Just a little for me,” her mother-in-law capriciously insisted. “I might get diabetes from too much sweetness.”

Alёna took her glass and poured about half of it back into the jug.

“Don’t you feel like you’re a bit twitchy today?” Sasha whispered to her as he leaned in. “At least smile a little—the guests will get cold food.”

She forced a smile, one that made her lips spasm painfully.

“That’s it, dear,” he patted her hand. “You know how much I love it when you smile.”

The meal was nearing its end. Alёna began gathering the empty plates.

“Leave them; you can wash them later,” Sasha waved his hand. “Bring the pie.”

She brought the pie, cut it, and served each person a slice.

“Alёn, where are the whipped cream?” Kolya immediately asked. “You always brought whipped cream with the pie!”

“And make me some coffee too,” Sasha added. “Coffee goes so much better with pie than tea.”

She made the coffee. She whipped the cream. She served everyone and then sat down again in her chair, feeling her shoulders numb with exhaustion.

“Exquisite!” Sasha said as he delightedly took a bite of the pie, smearing his lips with cream. He reached toward the vase of fruit and pulled out a big orange.

“Peel it for me, will you?” he said, handing the orange to Alёna. “I’d get my hands all messy and then have to wash up again.”

She looked at his hands. They were clean, neat—even with a tidy manicure. She looked at the orange—a round, ordinary, orange fruit. Then she looked back at Sasha, then at her mother-in-law, and then at all the others seated at the table.

Three years. And this orange. This very ordinary orange.

“No,” she said.

Her voice rang out unexpectedly loud in the sudden silence. She herself was surprised at how distinctly that single word had sounded.

“What?” Sasha asked, not believing his ears.

“I said—no,” Alёna repeated. “I’m not going to peel your orange.”

A silence fell over the table so deep that the ticking of clocks in another room could be heard. Her mother-in-law froze with a fork in hand, not even managing to get a piece of pie to her mouth. Natasha snickered nervously as if she’d heard an indecent joke. Kolya stared into his cup, trying with all his might to ignore the awkwardness.

“Are you… joking?” Sasha attempted a smile, but it came out crooked and forced.

“No, I’m not joking,” Alёna replied. Now, with that first word spoken, everything came pouring out. “I’m not going to peel your orange. And I’m not going to bring any more compote. And I’m not going to top it off any longer. Enough.”

“Alёna, what’s gotten into you?” her mother-in-law’s voice carried a tinge of righteous indignation. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Absolutely fine,” Alёna nodded. “For the first time in a long time.”

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Sasha said, standing abruptly and knocking over a chair. “We need to talk.”

He grabbed her hand and almost forcibly dragged her into the kitchen. Once there, he firmly closed the door and turned to her.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, barely holding back from yelling. “Did you decide to embarrass me in front of the whole family?”

“I’m not embarrassing anyone,” Alёna leaned against the refrigerator. “I just said ‘no.’”

“But why do it in front of everyone? Why not later, or in private? How dare you say ‘no’ right there in front of your mother-in-law!”

“Sure, in front of your mother, your brother, your sister. Get used to it.”

Sasha looked at her as though she had suddenly started speaking an alien language.

“Have you decided to humiliate me?” he spat out between gritted teeth. “Is this some sort of revenge?”

“No, Sasha. I’m not trying to humiliate you. And it’s not revenge,” Alёna shook her head. “I’m just tired of being treated like furniture with arms. I said ‘no’—directly to you. And to all this… circus.”

“What circus?”

“This one right here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen. “Every Sunday I get up at the crack of dawn to cook for ten people. I set the table, clear it, wash the dishes, cook again, set the table again. And all the time you all sit there, talk, have fun. And I… I serve you. And you’ve all gotten so used to it that you don’t even notice.”

“You’re saying some nonsense,” Sasha began to pace the kitchen nervously. “No one’s forcing you…”

“Of course no one is forcing me,” Alёna agreed. “And that’s what hurts even more. You all think that this is just how it should be. That it’s normal—to come into someone else’s home and expect to be served as if in a restaurant.”

“This isn’t someone else’s home—it’s my family’s home!”

“And mine too,” Alёna said quietly. “But I feel as though I’m not living here, I’m working. And you know what’s the most painful part? That all these years it would have been enough for me to say just one word: ‘no.’ But I never said it. And now I have.”

Sasha opened his mouth, ready to argue, but at that moment the kitchen door cracked open, and her mother-in-law’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “We just finished our tea…”

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” Sasha replied without looking at her. “Go on, we’re coming.”

The door closed, yet the presence of her mother-in-law seemed to linger in the air—unseen but palpable.

 

“Listen,” Sasha lowered his voice, “maybe you’re just exhausted? Is it work stress?”

Alёna let out a soft, genuine laugh.

“No, Sasha,” she shook her head. “This isn’t about being tired or stressed. It’s a revelation. I suddenly realized that I am a person too. And I have the right to say ‘no.’”

She turned and left the kitchen, feeling an unprecedented lightness—as if she had shed a heavy backpack she’d been carrying for years.

In the living room a deathly silence reigned. Everyone pretended to be absorbed in the contents of their plates, but the tense postures made it clear—everyone had heard every word. Alёna approached the table, picked up the orange from the vase, sat down, and began peeling it. Slowly and carefully she removed the peel in a spiral, just as she had done in her childhood.

Sasha stood at the doorway, frozen, not knowing what to do next. Alёna divided the orange into sections, handed one to her son—who had silently observed everything the whole time.

“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, and in his eyes Alёna saw something new—respect.

Sasha resumed his seat, took a second orange, and clumsily began peeling it, tearing off uneven pieces of the skin. No one uttered a word. Her mother-in-law opened her mouth several times but said nothing.

“Perhaps we should be going,” Natasha finally said as she rose. “Thank you for the lunch, Alёna.”

“Thank you.” For the first time in three years, Alёna heard that word of gratitude from her.

The guests departed with surprising speed. Usually they would stay until late into the night, but today everyone suddenly remembered they had urgent matters. Within half an hour the apartment was empty.

Sasha stood by the window, watching as relatives hurried into their cars.

“Are you satisfied?” he asked without turning around. “You chased them all away.”

“I didn’t chase anyone away,” Alёna said, gathering the plates from the table. “I simply said ‘no.’”

“And now what?” he turned to her. “You’re never going to cook for my family again? You’re going to ban them from coming?”

“No, Sasha. I don’t mind if your family comes. I’m against being a waitress in my own home. If your relatives want to come—let them come. But from now on, we’ll cook together. Or order food. Or they can bring something with them. Like in a normal family.”

“You do know Mom can’t cook…”

“At seventy-plus, one could have learned by now,” Alёna shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of delivery services, semi-prepared meals, ready-made salads. We’re not living in the Stone Age.”

Sasha sank onto the couch and hid his face in his hands, exhausted.

“I don’t understand what came over you,” he murmured. “You’ve always been so… accommodating.”

“Exactly,” Alёna said as she sat down beside him. “Too accommodating. But you know what? I learned one simple thing: ‘No’ is also a word. And it’s important to know how to say it.”

She rose and walked to the kitchen to wash the dishes—not because she had to, but because she chose to. And that was the fundamental difference.

The following Sunday, the phone was silent. No one came. Sasha spent the day looking sullenly at his watch, but by evening he couldn’t bear it any longer and called his mother.

“Mom, aren’t you coming today?”

Alёna didn’t hear what his mother replied, but from the expression on her husband’s face she understood—something had changed.

 

A week later, her mother-in-law herself called.

“Sashenka, Natasha and I want to drop by. Just for a little while. I made a salad and baked a pie.”

When they arrived, Alёna greeted them at the door like ordinary guests, not like masters come to inspect her domain. Her mother-in-law awkwardly extended containers of food.

“Here, I prepared a little something… Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you should…”

“Thank you,” Alёna said sincerely. “It means a lot.”

They sat down at the table of four—Alёna, Sasha, her mother-in-law, and Natasha. Alёna brought out a cake she had purchased from a confectioner; Sasha made the coffee; her mother-in-law distributed her salad onto the plates. All together.

“You know, it’s actually even more pleasant this way,” Natasha suddenly remarked as she served herself a slice of pie. “It feels… homely.”

Alёna caught Sasha’s eye across the table. In his gaze she saw surprise and something else—perhaps understanding? She smiled at him and, for the first time in a long while, felt not like a servant but the mistress of her own home. Of her own life.

No—that is also a word. And sometimes that single word is worth more than a thousand meaningless “yes.”

Do you agree with Alёna’s stance?

Oleg slammed the refrigerator door so hard that the contents on the shelves inside trembled. One of the magnets decorating its surface fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Lena stood opposite him, pale, with tightly clenched fists.

«Well, do you feel better now?» she exhaled sharply, tilting her chin up.

«You just drive me crazy,» Oleg’s voice cracked, though he tried hard to speak softly. «What kind of life is this? No joy, no prospects.»

«So it’s my fault again?» Lena laughed, but her laughter sounded bitter. «Of course, everything is not as in your dreams.»

Oleg wanted to reply, but just waved his hand. He opened a bottle of mineral water, took a sip straight from the neck, and set it on the table.

«Oleg, don’t be silent,» Lena’s voice trembled. «Just tell me what’s the matter?»

«What’s there to say?» he sneered. «If only… but you wouldn’t understand. I’m sick of all this. To the devil!»

They looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. Finally, Lena took a deep breath and went to the bathroom. Oleg sank onto the couch. From behind the door, the sound of running water could be heard: Lena probably turned on the tap to drown out her tears. But Oleg caught himself thinking that he no longer cared.

Oleg and Lena had been married for three years. They lived in Lena’s apartment, which she had inherited from her parents. After retiring, her parents moved to a country house, and the city apartment was transferred to their daughter. The apartment was spacious but with a simple renovation, and the furniture was almost from the Soviet era.

 

At first, Oleg was content: after all, the apartment was almost in the city center, close to work, in a decent area. But after six months, the daily grind began to irritate him. Lena felt cozy in her family fortress with familiar brown wallpaper and her grandmother’s sideboard. Oleg, however, found everything too mundane.

«Lena, explain to me,» he repeatedly started the same conversation. «Don’t you want to change that horrible yellow linoleum? Or re-paste the wallpaper? Make everything modern, stylish?»

«Oleg, we don’t have the extra money for a major renovation right now,» she answered, trying to speak gently. «Of course, I’d like to change everything, but let’s wait for the bonus or save up.»

«Wait?! That’s your whole life — waiting, enduring.»

Oleg often recalled how he met Lena. She was a modest student, but her blue eyes and kind smile conquered him. He told his friends, «I see a flower bud in her — just wait till it blooms, and everyone will be amazed.» Now, he seemed disappointed: «She hasn’t bloomed; she withered at the root,» he thought, watching as Lena wiped the dust from her mother’s fragile vases, fed sour cream to a kitten picked up from the street, or adjusted the frames with childhood photos on the walls.

But Lena didn’t feel like a «grey mouse»: she simply lived the way she thought was right. Small things pleased her — a new napkin, a quiet evening with a book, a cup of tea with mint, the warm light of a table lamp. Oleg, however, saw this as stagnation.

However, despite constant complaints, he didn’t want to divorce — deep down, the thought of having to move out of the convenient apartment to his parents’, with whom he never got along, held him back. Especially since his mother, Tamara Ilyinichna, tended to take his wife’s side in any argument.

«Son, you’re wrong,» she often repeated. «Lena is a wonderful girl, a smart one. You live in her apartment… be happy.»

«Mom, how would you know?» Oleg grumbled. «What do you even understand in life? Stuck, just like Lena, in your stone age.»

Tamara Ilyinichna sighed: her son had long drifted away. His father, Igor Sergeyevich, knowing Oleg’s temperament, only said:

«Let him figure it out, Tamara, don’t interfere.»

Meanwhile, Oleg came home and grew increasingly angry: «Lena is like a shadow, a grey mouse, and she even tied me to this apartment,» he kept telling himself. During another argument, he shouted:

«I once saw a beautiful flower in you! And now? I live with a frozen bud…»

Then Lena cried for the first time in many months.

And on that hot day — the same day it all started — they seriously discussed divorce for the first time. Oleg stood by the window, watching neighbors in the opposite house hang things on the balcony.

«Lena, I’m tired,» he said quietly, continuing to look through the glass.

«You’re tired… of what?» she tried to speak evenly.

«Of this life, of our endless quarrels. You’re locked in your pots and napkins. Do you think I want to aimlessly pass the years?»

Lena was silent for a minute, then took out the trash and left the corridor. Oleg heard the door slam. He hoped she would return in a couple of minutes, maybe explain herself. But Lena was gone for half an hour, returning more composed.

«You know,» she said, leaning against the wall, «maybe you really should be alone for a while. Move out.»

«No way,» Oleg snapped as if stung. «I’m not leaving my home.»

«Oleg, this isn’t your home. It’s my parents’ apartment,» Lena said bitterly. «Let’s be honest: it’s not working out. We need to accept that.»

He found nothing to reply, so he retreated to the room and sat at the laptop. But the thought haunted him: «Where will I go? To my parents… with whom I have strained relations.» The argument hung in the air, and in the following days, it repeated: they argued over trifles, but the root of each conflict was the same — indifference to his wife, whom he considered a «grey mouse,» mixed with the fear of being left without a roof over his head.

It reached a breaking point: Oleg finally got angry and filed for divorce himself. «I decide, not her,» he stubbornly muttered. «In the end, I have parents, I have somewhere to go.» He packed his bags and went to Tamara Ilyinichna and Igor Sergeyevich, though without much enthusiasm. Lena agreed to the divorce calmly.

Applications in the registry office — and soon they were officially no longer husband and wife.

Three years passed. Oleg lived with his parents all this time. Initially, he thought, «I’ll rest a couple of months and return to normal life: rent an apartment, find a new girlfriend who will share my ideals.» But he got stuck, as in a swamp. Work was joyless: money was only enough for modest pleasures. And the prospects somehow didn’t materialize. His parents grumbled that their son was over thirty and still living off them.

And then one cold spring evening, Oleg was returning after meeting a friend. He walked past a small cozy cafe, where bright lights shone in the window. Oleg decided to stop by to warm up. But, as he approached, he suddenly froze: Lena was standing at the entrance. The same Lena he left three years ago in her apartment. But this was a different woman: confident posture, neat hairstyle, strict but elegant clothes, and a calm gaze. In her hands were car keys, judging by the make, not cheap.

«Wow…» thought Oleg, not even realizing how he approached her.

 

«Lena?» he called out.

She turned around, didn’t recognize him at first, but then smiled. Oleg noticed that the smile wasn’t the same as before — shy and embarrassed, but truly calm and confident.

«Hi, Oleg,» she said. «Glad to see you! How are you?»

«Fine…» he adjusted his scarf, feeling somewhat bewildered. «I see you’re doing well.»

«Let’s just say, I now live as I always dreamed,» Lena answered without a trace of pomp.

«Is that so…» Oleg swallowed, trying to swallow along with the lump in his throat and the growing envy. «And… well done. Are you still working there?»

«No, I changed fields. I opened my own floristry studio. I was afraid at first, but…» she smiled. «Someone supported me.»

«Who is that?» the words slipped out before he could stop them.

Before Lena could answer, a tall man in a coat emerged from the cafe doors. He approached Lena and embraced her shoulders:

«Darling, a table just freed up, shall we go?»

Lena turned to Oleg, introduced the man:

«This is Vadim, meet him. Vadim, this is Oleg,» she smiled at the man, touched by his care. «Anyway, Oleg, I was glad to see you. I… hope you’re doing well too.»

Oleg nodded, feeling a storm brewing inside. Looking at Vadim, he suddenly realized: Lena was completely different, not the «grey mouse» he considered her. She had bloomed, like the flower he himself described, but not with him, with someone else.

«Lena…» he wanted to say something like «forgive me,» but all words stuck in his throat. «Happy for you, really.»

«Thank you, Oleg,» she replied softly but confidently. «Take care.»

Vadim smiled at Oleg, nodded slightly, and they disappeared behind the glass door of the cafe. Oleg felt the cold wind literally piercing him through. He closed his eyes for a moment and remembered: «Living with a frozen bud…» — he once harshly threw at Lena. And now the bud had bloomed, and he himself was left outside, both literally and figuratively.

Through the large windows of the cafe, he could see Lena and Vadim talking about something, laughing. He watched their gesticulation, sincere smiles, and caught himself thinking that his evening was already ruined. And not just the evening — the feeling of emptiness in his soul was growing. Once, he could have been the source of confidence for Lena, encourage her to change, support her aspirations. But he chose something entirely different.

Oleg, lowering his head, walked away from the cafe. Perhaps, if he could see himself now, he would realize that he had turned green — from envy, from regret, and possibly from the agonizing feeling of a missed opportunity.

The phone rang with a long, nerve-wracking trill, filling the hallway with a buzz. Holding the phone to her ear, Varya focused intently on her shopping list. She wiped the raindrops from her face with the sleeve of her sweater, and with a small smile at something in the conversation, she stepped toward the door. Then, the irritating thought crossed her mind—she had left her wallet at home. Glancing back at the apartment door, she apologized into the phone and reached for her keys in her bag.

 

Quietly turning the lock, Varya entered the apartment, mentally going through where she could have left her wallet. Everything was as usual: quiet, cozy, and there was Vasily, the purring cat, sneaking up to her feet with a demanding look on his face. She threw her bag on the couch and froze suddenly.

From the kitchen came muted voices.

«…well, you know, Varya shouldn’t know about this,» the voice was low and resembled her husband’s, although she wasn’t familiar with the deep undertones of his voice.

Varya cautiously crept up to the door, her heart beating faster. A slight tension turned into worry. She was about to step back and disappear, but then her gaze fell on the man sitting at the kitchen table. Their eyes met in the mirror on the wall: her husband, Mikhail, was leisurely drinking tea with a man Varya had never seen before.

The guest was tall and casually dressed, with long hair barely touching his shoulders. A faint smile played on his face as he noticed Varya.

«Looks like we have a guest,» the man said calmly, without taking his eyes off his cup.

Mikhail, Varya’s husband, seemed to snap out of a trance and suddenly turned towards her. His eyes widened with surprise and confusion.

«Varya! You were supposed to…»

«I came back for my wallet,» she answered, fighting the slight tremble in her voice. Intuitively, she felt that the stranger’s name wasn’t as important at that moment as what was happening at the table. Varya stubbornly tried to understand the situation.

Mikhail reached forward, gesturing for his wife to sit. Varya, contemplating whether she would do so, remained standing by the door, wondering what she might have missed.

«This is my old friend, Vadim,» Mikhail began to explain, his voice, initially tense, gradually taking on its usual soft tone. «He unexpectedly came to the city, and, well, we decided to catch up.»

«Yeah, yeah,» Vadim chimed in, smiling, «I’m not exactly in my usual routine, so I show up wherever I can. Like the old days, right Misha?»

Varya felt a calmness replacing the thudding of her heart, however slight it was. She smiled briefly, making eye contact with Vadim. It was clear that his arrival was not a surprise for her husband, and, most likely, there was truly no reason for serious concern.

«I was just surprised, that’s all,» she said, fixing her hair. By then, the cat, Vasily, had already settled on her lap, purring like an industrial engine. «How long do you plan to stay in the city, Vadim?»

«Probably not long,» he replied, still giving no hint of any further intentions, «once I wrap up my business, I’ll be heading out.»

The conversation smoothly shifted into lighter topics, and Varya, sitting at the table, began to think more seriously about what had really caused her initial anxiety. However, as she pondered, the warmth of home spread through the room, dissolving her caution.

Soon, the conversation turned to typical subjects: the weather, politics, distant relatives, and life plans. And when Varya found another excuse to distract herself, her thoughts were already focused on more practical matters: the lunch she had been planning to cook for some time.

 

«Your cooking is a real art,» Vadim complimented, nodding towards the cutting board where cucumber slices were neatly rolling.

She smiled, this time sincerely.

«Years of practice, as they say,» Varya winked, trying to smooth over the awkwardness that still hung in the air. At least from her side.

Before long, the apartment filled with the smells of cooking food. Vasily, having moved to the window, lay on a cushion, enjoying the warmth from the radiator. Mikhail and Vadim continued their conversation, but in a more relaxed tone.

«Varya, maybe you should rest a bit?» Mikhail suggested, glancing at the clock. «I can finish with the lunch.»

But Varya shook her head. Her calm nerves and renewed energy wanted to finish what she had started.

«Thanks, but I’ll do it myself,» she replied, listening to how each important part of her life seemed to fall back into place.

As the evening approached and they sat down to eat, Varya noticed how Vadim with suspicious accuracy caught the essence of their family jokes and never stayed out of the conversation for long.

On one of Mikhail’s stories about the past, they all laughed heartily. Like old friends, they understood each other with half a word.

When the meal was over and Varya took the dirty dishes to the sink, Vadim, with gratitude in his voice, said:

«Thank you for your hospitality, Varya. You have a wonderful home.»

She nodded, hiding a simple «you’re welcome» behind her words. Yes, his unexpected visit had put her in an awkward position, but now he seemed almost like a part of her life.

Later in the evening, when Vadim went off in search of friends in the city, Varya and Mikhail settled on the couch. Silence descended on them, like a soft shawl, calming them after a busy day.

«Sorry for the unexpected turn of events,» Mikhail said quietly, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. «An old friend, you know.»

Varya nodded. She wanted to say that everything was fine, but in reality, she was grateful for her intuition, which hadn’t failed her. Even though they didn’t often discuss the scope of household matters, she felt the support of her husband, and it warmed her soul.

«The most important thing is that everything was honest between us.»

Varya and Mikhail continued to sit in the dark, holding each other tighter. And in Varya’s mind, she replayed the thought of how one meeting could unexpectedly change everything.

«Finally, Varya said that she would be glad to have any guests. Even if it’s a surprise like Vadim.»

In response, Mikhail smiled, pulling her closer.

«Yes, sometimes unexpected meetings bring something good,» he said, gazing thoughtfully out the window.

«And Vadim turned out to be a very interesting person,» Varya continued, recalling the conversation from earlier.

«That’s true,» Mikhail replied, «we went through a lot together in our youth. But in recent years, we kind of lost touch.»

Varya caught the hint of nostalgia in Mikhail’s voice. She wouldn’t have noticed it before, but now she was paying very close attention to the details.

«Maybe it’s a sign that we should reconnect?» Varya said, a note of hope in her voice.

Mikhail just looked at her with surprise.

«Maybe you’re right,» he concluded. «You know, Varya, I’ve been thinking about how important it is to notice all the signs life throws at us.»

At that moment, it seemed as though their thoughts had merged into one.

When they finally got up, Varya realized that today had taught her a valuable life lesson.

As she prepared to go to bed, Varya turned around and, smiling at Mikhail, said:

«Tomorrow will be a new day. And maybe it will bring something interesting too.»

Mikhail smiled back, and feeling the mutual understanding between them, they settled into a peaceful night, leaving everything unimportant behind the door.

In the morning, Varya woke up in a good mood and, stretching out, heard Mikhail already preparing breakfast in the kitchen.

«Good morning, my dear!» Mikhail said with a smile.

 

«Good morning,» Varya replied, taking a mug of fragrant coffee.

Over breakfast, they discussed many things, made plans for the day, and it seemed like time had stopped for just the two of them.

«Have you talked to Vadim yet?» Varya asked suddenly, remembering the recent events.

«Yes,» Mikhail nodded, setting his coffee cup down. «He said he’ll come by tonight. He wants to discuss something important.»

Varya nodded, feeling a light curiosity. The previous day had opened not only new sides of life for her but also the vulnerability of long-standing friendships. Whether Vadim had his reasons for the unexpected visit, they decided to find out when the evening came.

While Varya went about her daily tasks, her thoughts often returned to the evening before.

Something new had entered her life, like a reminder that you should never lose sight of the people close to you, even if your paths slightly diverge.

Mikhail, returning from work visibly inspired, as if his thoughts were also caught up in the endless reflections of the day, suggested they stay home in the evening. Varya eagerly agreed, ready for whatever would unfold in their house when Vadim arrived.

The evening descended quickly, and before long, the doorbell rang, breaking the usual rhythm of the house.

Opening the door, Varya let Vadim in, who wore a mysterious smile on his face.

«Well, my dear ones, your hospitality is a special gift,» Vadim said, taking off his coat. «I feel almost at home.»

Varya and Mikhail exchanged brief, understanding looks. However mysterious this guest was, he still brought a special atmosphere of kinship and even a hint of adventure back into their home.

They settled in the living room, where the soft light from the lamps created a cozy, almost familial atmosphere. Vadim, comfortably situated, finally began the conversation that seemed to have been weighing on him all this time.

«When I came to the city,» he began, glancing at Mikhail and Varya, «it wasn’t just for old memories. I have a request for you, and honestly, I’d be glad for your help.»

Varya and Mikhail looked at him closely, sensing the increasing tension and desire to help.

«I’ve been planning something big, something I think might be interesting for you as well. And perhaps you’ll want to try it too…»

That evening, sitting in the warmth of their small family nest, the three of them delved into Vadim’s plans. The stories intertwined in one breath—about old victories and friendships, new promising ideas, and long-held plans, each new word unfolding the picture of future joint steps and trials.

That evening became the beginning of a new chapter, fitting into their lives as a sign that the future held something truly important. Something that might have been missed if Varya, forgetting her wallet, hadn’t come back home that day.

— Mom called. She’s complaining about life again. She’s really tired of my brother’s family. — Igor said, washing the dishes.

— Well, everyone gets what they deserve, right? — I replied, packing food for my husband to take to work.

 

— I’m just so tired of hearing about how noisy the kids are, how cramped they all are in the two-room apartment. — Igor started drying the plates.

— I don’t understand why Alexey has endless problems. He should have changed jobs a long time ago, and rented a place instead of cramming in with his mother, wife, and three kids. — I closed the container and put it in the fridge.

Such conversations happened often in our house. Igor and I got married five years ago, and all this time I only heard about how hard it was for my husband’s older brother. The difficulty was that he married a quarrelsome woman, immediately had three kids, was always struggling with work, and had nowhere to live. I couldn’t even guess what they were thinking when they started having kids. But one fine day, Alexey and Maria, with their three children, showed up at my mother-in-law’s doorstep and declared they would now live with her. Irina Semenovna couldn’t kick them out, so she let them stay and later regretted her hasty decision and her kindness a hundred times.

My mother-in-law was over sixty, she wanted peace and quiet, but her grandkids were noisy, like all kids. Of course, the kindergarten helped, but evenings turned into endless games, with Grandma mainly involved. The parents tried to steal a moment for themselves – Masha hid in the bathroom, and Alexey played computer games. Irina Semenovna, just to rest and recharge, would come to us with endless complaints about life. I truly sympathized with her, but both my husband and I understood that my mother-in-law was responsible for what was happening to her.

Moreover, Alexey and his family had been living at Irina Semenovna’s for almost a year, but he had done nothing to move into a rental. He was fine with his tiny salary, his wife stayed home for years with each child. My mother-in-law was really tired of living in a noisy house full of kids, where she no longer had her own space.

It was just when Alexey and Maria had their youngest son that my grandmother passed away. She never complained about her health, even in her late eighties, she managed the garden by herself. She weeded, watered, planted, and dug potatoes, and every autumn, she made so many preserves that there was enough for everyone. When she passed away, I found out that she had left the summer house to me. I was her only and favorite granddaughter, and my parents had no interest in the land.

Mom and dad were still working, and they had no desire to deal with greenhouses, which they often discussed at family gatherings. So, my grandmother decided that we would need it more. Igor was a handyman, and soon we made everything so that we could live in the house even during the winter. The spacious house was clad in siding, everything inside was renovated, and all modern amenities were added. It wasn’t cheap, but Igor and I both worked and earned enough to invest in the country house and land. I joyfully bought various bushes and seedlings, so the garden was full of plants that generously gave us their fruits when the time came.

In the summer, we moved there to live — fresh air, a nearby river, and forest. Plus, it was less than an hour’s drive to the city, so getting to work wasn’t a problem. Sometimes relatives came over for BBQs — not too often, thankfully. They didn’t help much, but Igor and I managed just fine. My mother-in-law considered us wealthy — the country house, the apartment, the car. She often asked for money to help her oldest son. Igor usually gave small amounts, though he wasn’t happy that Alexey refused to change anything.

It became a family pattern — the younger son grew up hardworking, active, and ready to achieve everything in life, while the older one believed that everyone owed him something. It was also complicated by the kids. Alexey thought he deserved even more because he had three boys. Kids were expensive, but the parents should have thought about it before having so many.

This year, we finished building the bathhouse, the gazebo, and the second floor. My dad helped Igor, so it was all done in one season. Dad was also a handyman, and he and Igor always got along. Now our summer house was truly exemplary — it had everything you could want. There was water, warmth, a bathhouse, and a beautiful gazebo where we could drink tea at sunset. A friend gave us chestnut and Manchurian walnut saplings, which we planted near the gazebo. When they grew, their intricate leaves would provide dense shade during hot summer days.

The last time my mother-in-law came, she was so full of praise for the house that Igor and I just smiled. She never had a summer house, but she always dreamed of one, she said. But she wasn’t often invited to visit. Yes, I had a decent relationship with Irina Semenovna, but her spoiling of her older son always irritated me.

In the fall, we planned to build insulated chicken coops and start raising chickens. The plot was large, so we could afford a lot. Many people here raised geese and livestock. Igor and I had discussed it many times — we couldn’t manage a full farm, but small things, like chickens for eggs and meat, would work. My husband had already bought the wood for the chicken coops, was looking online for advice, and talking to neighbors who had experience with poultry.

In almost every yard, someone raised animals, and the summer village started to resemble a proper village. We didn’t dare stay there for the winter — it was still difficult. A house always requires effort. In the winter, we had to shovel snow every day, which wasn’t very convenient when you work five days a week. So, we lived there only until October, then moved back to the city. Though we did consider trying to stay there for the winter just once. Maybe we were just scared. Other people lived there without problems. We wouldn’t rent out the apartment — we didn’t want strangers in our house. We’d pay just the minimum utilities, and in the village, that was very cheap. Heating was less than two thousand a month with a gas boiler, even in the coldest months.

 

We also planned to have children next year. After all, Igor and I had been married for a long time, and we wanted to continue our family. We had talked about it many times, and even made some savings for the first months. Kids are about responsibility. You can’t just have three kids and expect them to grow up on their own. You need to feed, clothe, and educate them. Alexey had it easy — he just moved in with his elderly mother, along with his wife and three kids. Everything was ready-made for him. But Igor and I thought everything through carefully. Of course, we couldn’t plan everything, but we had to try.

Recently, my mother-in-law had been visiting us more often. Her complaints about life were endless. She lived in cramped conditions, felt resentful, and was tired of her grandkids. Sometimes her son would reply sharply to her, which hurt Irina Semenovna’s feelings. She just wanted peace and quiet.

She promised to visit again tomorrow, to have tea and talk. This time, “talk” from her sounded serious. She probably had something important to say. I made cream fish soup with cod and basil and baked a savory pie with cabbage and minced meat. It always turned out wonderfully soft and fragrant, and Igor and I would eat it all in one day.

As promised, Irina Semenovna arrived in the afternoon. She was rosy-cheeked from the cold autumn wind. She took off her coat and walked into the kitchen. It was Saturday, and both Igor and I were home. Igor helped clean the floors while I made the pie. He didn’t divide household chores into “women’s” and “men’s,” as many men do. He understood that I also had a hard time because I worked too. He always helped and tried to make things easier for me. I knew how lucky I was with Igor, and I always sincerely thanked him for his help around the house.

Irina Semenovna took a big sip of sweet tea with milk, paused dramatically, and said:

— We’re going to give your summer house to my son. He has a family, and it’s more necessary for him. — My mother-in-law declared.

— We have a family too, and the summer house was left to me by my grandmother. — I retorted, recovering from the shock. — Alexey is almost forty. He could have done so much by now and stood on his own feet. But your son prefers to live with you, getting everything ready-made, with his many children and a wife who doesn’t want to work or help you with household chores.

— Vera, don’t be smart, just do as I say! He’s your husband’s brother; you have to respect him!

— For what? Because he doesn’t want to get up from the couch at almost forty and can only make babies? That doesn’t earn my respect, sorry. We worked for three years, running back and forth to improve the summer house and land. This is what I respect — we didn’t burden anyone, we aimed for our goal. We never asked you for anything. And now you’re suggesting giving all of this to your son? No way! He hasn’t painted a single board but wants to get everything for free, as usual! — I was getting angrier.

— Mom, you’re asking the impossible. We need the summer house too. We’re planning to have a baby next year, and we’ll be moving there with the little one. — Igor joined the conversation.

— You’ve been living together for so long, and haven’t even gotten a cat! And Alexey already has three.

— Let him have seven! It’s not our problem, Irina Semenovna. — I said.

— I see what’s going on with you. You won’t even shovel snow in the winter. Live however you like!

My mother-in-law got up from the table, still not finished with her tea, and went to the hallway. She threw on her coat, tied a headscarf, quickly put on her shoes, and left, muttering something to her younger son. Igor came back, not upset at all.

— Wow, the audacity! To give them the summer house! They only came for BBQs, and even then, at our expense. They never offered to help — just “give” and “give” for free, whether it’s vegetables, rest, or anything else. And now they want to live there too. — I said angrily to Igor.

— Yeah, let them be offended now. Angry people just make noise. — My husband responded. — Let’s eat. The whole house smells like fish soup and pie.

I smiled and opened the oven to check if the pie was done. It was perfectly baked. We ate and chatted, dreaming of having a son or a daughter.

 

My mother-in-law, offended, really disappeared from our radar. She didn’t ask for money to help Alexey and the grandkids, didn’t write, and didn’t call. I found out from a neighbor that her son and family still lived in Irina Semenovna’s apartment. We celebrated the New Year at the summer house — we moved there for a whole week. As it turned out, it wasn’t such a snowy winter, and living at the summer house didn’t turn into endless snow clearing. The winter weekend was wonderful. We grilled fish, walked a lot, decorated the tree that grew by the house, and hung bright outdoor lights. The winter was warm and calm. Snow fell, but it was brief and didn’t cause any trouble.

When we returned home, I found out we were going to be parents. I told Igor at dinner, and he was genuinely happy. We started preparing the nursery, and these tasks inspired and delighted us. I bought a crib with colorful sides, embroidered with funny penguins on white icebergs, and chose bedding for the future baby. We didn’t know yet if it was a boy or a girl, but that didn’t matter — we would love whoever it was because it was our child. My mother-in-law went on complaining to the neighbor, and didn’t change her anger even when we came home from the maternity hospital.

Gena was born right on time — with chubby cheeks, funny little ears, and blue eyes, just like all babies. Now, Igor and I started a new, happy life, which changed a lot with our son. There was plenty of work with him, but Igor helped a lot, and I once again realized that I married the best man in the world. Happiness is in the little things, in simple decisions and everyday tasks.

But it’s impossible if you don’t take responsibility for your own comfort, for yourself, for your family, and for your relationships with others. None of this came out of nowhere for Igor and me — we earned it through hard work, decisions, and the willingness to face the consequences. Alexey, though, continued to live with his mother, piling his wife and three kids onto her. Everything suited him. As for Igor and me, we had our own little world, in which we were building our happiness.

You know, I always dreamed of having my own place,” I said with a slight smirk, looking at the keys he was holding.
“And I’ve always had my own place,” he replied with that same smile, which now only filled me with disgust.

It was already 9:30 p.m. I checked my phone again—no messages from Sergey. Dinner had gone cold, the candles had burned down, and the wine I’d opened two hours ago had lost all its bouquet. Much like our relationship.

Suddenly, the front door slammed so hard that the glass in the display cabinet rattled. Sergey stormed in, carelessly pulling off his tie. He smelled of an expensive perfume—one that wasn’t the one I’d given him for our anniversary.

“Why are you late?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“What, now I have to report every move?” he snapped, throwing his briefcase onto the couch. “I’m working, if you must know. Someone has to support this household.”

I bit my lip. Six years of climbing the career ladder in a large company, three promotions, and yet to him I was still just a “woman with career ambitions.”

“I made dinner. I wanted to discuss something important…” I began.

“You know what, Anya?” He cut me off. “I’m tired. Tired of your endless complaints, your constant dissatisfaction, these staged candlelit dinners. You live in some romance novel, but it doesn’t work.”

I froze. A lump formed in my throat, but I was not about to show him my tears.

“You’re right,” my voice sounded firmer than I expected. “I really am living in a novel. Only it’s not a love story. It’s a detective story. And you’re the main antagonist in it.”

His laughter cracked the air like a whip. The sound reverberated painfully inside me.

The divorce went quickly, as if Sergey had planned it in advance. The apartment we had built together—where I had invested not just money but a piece of my soul—remained his. “Legally, it belongs to me,” he said calmly, as though he were talking about an old T-shirt.

Marina, my best friend, helped me find a temporary rental in the neighboring district. Small, but cozy. “It’s only temporary,” she kept repeating, and I nodded, trying to believe her words.

“You know what hurts the most?” I asked, pouring wine into glasses in my new, tiny kitchen. “I really did love him. Not the apartment, not the status, not the lifestyle—just him.”

“And he only loved himself,” Marina handed me a napkin. “And you know what? It’s time for you to learn that art, too.”

I looked at my reflection in the window. A tired woman with a dull gaze stared back at me. Was that really me? The same Anna who once dreamed of conquering the world back in university?

“You’re right,” I said decisively, downing my wine in one gulp. “It’s time to learn to love myself. And one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Marina inquired.

“Revenge,” I answered, and for the first time in a long time, my smile was genuine.

The month after the divorce, I lived on autopilot. Work, home, then work again. I tried not to think about the past and resisted the urge to check Sergey’s social media. Marina joked that I looked like a clothed zombie from “The Walking Dead.” Maybe she was right.

“You can’t isolate yourself in this apartment forever,” Marina declared one evening, bursting in with a bottle of wine and a pizza box. “And no, working until midnight is not normal social activity.”

“I’m not isolating,” I argued, closing my laptop. “I’m just… adjusting.”

“Adjusting?” She snorted, taking two glasses out of her bag. “Honey, you’re not a coral reef to take centuries to adapt. By the way, remember the new project presentation next week?”

I groaned. Of course I remembered. The project I’d been working on for the past six months was either going to be my triumph or my downfall. Honestly, the latter seemed more likely, given how my life had been lately.

The morning of the presentation started with me spilling coffee on my white blouse. Normally, that might have thrown me off, but today I just laughed. What could be worse than losing your husband and your home?

“Anna Viktorovna,” my director, Alexey Petrovich, called out to me as I was heading to the conference room. “A moment, please.”

My heart sank as if it had dropped somewhere down into my stomach. Was he about to cancel my presentation? Or worse, did he already know my project was doomed?

“I looked over your materials last night,” he began once we were in his office. “I have a proposition.”

I braced myself for the worst.

“How would you feel about heading a new department?”

 

“Excuse me… what?” I blinked, sure I’d misheard.

“A new Strategic Development Department,” he continued, smiling. “Your project is exactly what we need. And from the way you’ve prepared it, you’re the ideal person to lead it.”

“But… what about Mikhail Stepanovich? Wasn’t he supposed to get this position?” I asked, still in shock.

“He was,” Alexey Petrovich nodded. “But he accepted an offer from our competitors. And you know what? I’m glad. Your approach is much more interesting.”

By the end of the day, I still couldn’t believe what was happening. The presentation was a triumph, the promotion contract was sitting in my bag, and my phone was practically exploding with congratulatory messages from colleagues.

“I told you so!” Marina gloated over a glass of champagne in our favorite bar. “You were always smarter than the rest of them; you just let that jerk overshadow your shine.”

“Don’t call him that,” I automatically responded, then burst out laughing. “Although, you know, you’re right. He really is a fool—he took everything we shared and just threw it away.”

“And now what?” she asked, winking at the waiter as a new bottle appeared.

“Now?” I mused. “Now I’m going to buy my own apartment. The kind I want, not what Sergey wanted. And guess what? I’ll hang pink curtains there. Sure, I’ll take out a mortgage, but with the new position, I can handle it.”

“He hated pink!”

“Exactly!” I raised my glass. “Here’s to pink curtains and a new life!”

The next six months flew by in a blur. The new position demanded my all, but I relished every moment. For the first time in my life, I felt I was doing what I truly loved.

My new apartment (with pink curtains) was filling up with details that truly made it mine. No compromises, no more “What would Sergey think?”—just what I liked.

“You’ve changed,” Marina remarked over lunch one day, looking me over. “And it’s not just the new haircut and wardrobe.”

She was right. I really had changed. The insecure woman who always looked over her shoulder at her husband was gone. Now I made decisions for myself—and took responsibility for them, too.

“You know what’s funny?” I asked, stirring sugar into my coffee. “I’m grateful to him. Grateful that he opened my eyes. Now I live my own life.”

“To Sergey?” Marina almost choked on her salad, nearly spilling her dressing.

“Exactly. If not for his betrayal, I’d still be living in his shadow, settling for the role of the ‘successful husband’s wife.’”

That day started off like any other: a meeting with the general director, then passing through reception on my way back. As I walked by, I overheard a conversation:

“…Confirmed from the head office. The whole department is being transferred under her leadership.”

I stopped in my tracks.

“Anna Viktorovna will now be in charge of the Moscow branch, too?” someone asked in surprise.

“Yeah, starting on the first. Can you imagine the scale? Thirty people on the team.”

The corners of my mouth lifted in a smile. Thirty people—quite a responsibility. But I knew I was ready for anything now.

“You know who works there?” the voice went on. “Sergey Viktorovich, her ex-husband.”

My smile slowly turned predatory. Oh yes, I knew exactly who worked there. Fate had decided to give me a special kind of gift.

That evening, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, looking at my reflection. An expensive suit fit me perfectly; my new haircut gave me confidence; my eyes shone with determination.

“Well then, Sergey Viktorovich,” I whispered to my reflection, “are you ready to meet your new boss?”

My phone buzzed with a message from Marina:

“Heard the news! How do you feel?”

I answered quickly:

“Remember you said life is the best screenwriter? Looks like it just wrote the perfect ending to my story.”

 

“Ending?” Marina replied almost instantly. “Sounds more like it’s just beginning!”

My first meeting with Sergey in my new capacity was set to happen at a general department gathering. I was as nervous as if I were going on a first date. I spent two hours picking out my outfit, redoing my makeup three times. I finally settled on my favorite gray suit, which I’d once bought on sale. It wasn’t the most expensive, but it fit perfectly. And the shoes… I remembered the scandal he’d caused when I first bought them: “They’re just shoes! Why spend so much?” For me, they were a symbol of a personal victory.

Glancing at my reflection in the office’s glass doors, I almost laughed out loud. Where was that helpless woman, tripping over boxes of her belongings as she left his apartment? She was gone. In her place stood another—one with a straight back and a cool gaze.

“Good morning, colleagues,” my voice rang out confidently as I walked into the conference room.

Thirty pairs of eyes turned to me. Only one pair, locked in stunned shock, belonged to Sergey. His face went so pale so fast that I worried he might pass out.

“For those who don’t know me yet,” I began, smiling professionally and politely, “I’m Anna Viktorovna, your new supervisor. I’m sure we’ll work together just fine.”

As soon as the meeting ended, Sergey tried to corner me in the hallway.

“Anya, wait! There must be some mistake!”

I turned, lifting my eyebrow:

“Do you have any work-related questions, Sergey Viktorovich? If not, then excuse me—I have an important meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“What the hell, work questions?!” he burst out, grabbing my arm. “You were always just…”

“Take your hand off me. This instant,” I said each word sharply, coldly. “And in the future, I suggest you choose your words carefully. I wouldn’t want to see this as a disciplinary violation.”

He recoiled as though scalded.

“You’ve changed,” he muttered, clearly rattled.

“Really?” I pretended to be surprised. “I think I’ve always been like this. Some people just preferred not to notice.”

In the weeks that followed, it became a challenging game. Sometimes Sergey tried to get on my good side; other times he would explode in frustration. I remained unmoved, focused solely on work. No personal feelings, no compromises. Each day was a new step forward, each success another reminder that I was capable of much more than he’d ever believed.

“Sergey Viktorovich,” I addressed him during one meeting, “about your quarterly report… How can I put this delicately…”

“What’s wrong with it?” he snapped. “I always do reports this way.”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” I replied, tapping my pen lightly on the table. “You’re still using a five-year-old method. The world’s moving forward, and you’re stuck in the past. Update your data with the new metrics. Deadline: by the end of tomorrow.”

“By tomorrow?!” He turned red. “That’s impossible! I already have plans, theater tickets…”

“That’s your personal problem,” I said coolly. “Work always comes first, or wasn’t it you who once drilled that into me?”

After the meeting, Olga—his new girlfriend, who worked in a neighboring department—approached me:

“Anna Viktorovna, can I have a minute?”

I nodded, expecting a scene or accusations. She surprised me instead:

“I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?” I asked, wary.

“For opening my eyes to his true character,” she said with a bitter smile. “Yesterday, I packed my things and moved out.”

In three months under my leadership, Sergey hardly recognized himself. His former cockiness was replaced by confusion; his performance metrics were dropping, and his attempts to maintain his old authority looked increasingly pitiful.

“Anya, we need to talk,” he cornered me one evening by the office exit.

“Anna Viktorovna,” I automatically corrected, pulling out my car keys.

“I don’t care!” he practically shouted, clearly on the edge. “I get it, okay? I was a blind idiot. I never valued you, your ambitions, your potential. Can’t we start over?”

I froze. How many times had I imagined this moment? How many nights had I dreamed of hearing those words?

 

“You know what’s most ironic?” I turned to him slowly. “A year ago, I would’ve done anything to hear that. But now…” I shook my head. “Now it’s all different.”

“Different?” He frowned. “You’re not even happy?”

“No, I’m grateful,” I answered calmly. “If it weren’t for you, I would never have realized what I’m capable of. Wouldn’t have found the strength to become who I am today. You actually did more for me than you’ll ever know.”

“So what now?” His voice quivered.

“Now?” I opened the car door. “Now you should submit your resignation. Of your own accord, of course. And I’ll give you a great reference.”

“You’re taking revenge on me?” His face contorted.

“No,” I said, starting the engine. “I’m just doing business. Unfortunately, you no longer meet the company’s standards.”

That evening, Marina and I relaxed on the balcony of my new apartment. The sunset painted the sky the same pink as my curtains.

“You know,” my friend began thoughtfully, “when you talked about revenge a year ago, I thought it was just emotions.”

“Oh, I really was angry,” I admitted, taking a sip of wine. “But then I realized one important thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“The best revenge isn’t hurting other people,” I replied. “The best revenge is becoming so strong that they realize for themselves just how badly they misjudged you.”

Marina raised her glass:
“To strong women!”

“And to those who help them discover that strength,” I added with a smile.

My phone chimed with a new notification: the company had approved Sergey’s resignation. I looked at the sunset and thought that sometimes life writes scenarios far more intriguing than any movie. Sometimes the end of one story is the beginning of another—one that’s much more exciting.

Autumn winds chased fallen leaves along the paths, creating whimsical little whirlwinds. Victoria stood by the window, gazing pensively at her neglected garden. Over the past few years, it had turned into a real tangle of shrubs and tall grass—something between a wild forest and an abandoned lot.

“Something has to be done,” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.

Switching on her laptop, Victoria opened her email. Her eyes fell on a message from Elena Sergeevna, a longtime acquaintance from her business circle. Elena was praising a young gardener: “Kirill is simply a master of his craft. In just a few months, he completely transformed my garden, restoring it to its former beauty.”

Victoria hesitated. The garden really did need serious attention. She had bought this mansion three years ago, when she decided to start a new life. But landscaping the grounds had remained on the back burner.

Her thoughts involuntarily shifted to an old photo in a frame that still stood on the shelf. In the picture, Victoria and Alexey were young and happy, newly returned from their honeymoon. She winced and turned the frame facedown. “Enough living in the past,” she said firmly to herself.

It had already been fifteen years since that fateful day when Alexey disappeared from her life—no explanations, no warnings. Victoria still remembered every detail of that morning. He woke up early, as always, kissed her on the cheek, and said: “I’ll be home late today; don’t wait for me for dinner.”

Those were his last words. She never saw him again. At first, she was lost: she called every friend and acquaintance she could think of, but nobody knew anything. It was as though Alexey had vanished into thin air. No trace, no clue as to where he might have gone. It was as if he had never even existed in her life.

Later, the divorce papers arrived. He acted through a lawyer and did not bother to meet her in person. Only much later did Victoria begin to realize how little she had known about her husband. He had appeared out of nowhere, courted her beautifully, was attentive and caring. But he rarely talked about his past, often deflecting serious questions with jokes. And she, blinded by emotion, hadn’t noticed the warning signs.

A phone call pulled her out of her memories. It was Elena Sergeevna, reminding her about the young gardener. “Yes, let him come tomorrow at ten,” Victoria replied after a brief pause.

The next morning, she waited for her guest in her home office. Exactly at ten, the doorbell rang.

A tall, fit young man with a confident posture and a calm yet attentive gaze stood on the threshold.

 

“Hello, my name is Kirill. Elena Sergeevna mentioned you might need a gardener,” he said with a slight nod.

Victoria led him around the property, showing him the scope of the work. Kirill moved unhurriedly, carefully examining every corner of the grounds, making notes in a small notebook, and asking specific, professional questions.

“There’s a lot to be done, but nothing impossible. In two to three months, we can bring everything to perfect order,” he summed up after the tour.

His confidence was contagious, and Victoria immediately felt she had made the right choice. They discussed the details, and Kirill started work the very next morning.

She often watched him from her office window. There was something mesmerizing in the way he worked: every movement was deliberate, with no pointless rush or chaos. It was as if he could sense nature and understood how best to work with it.

Gradually, the garden changed. The thick weeds disappeared, neat path lines emerged, and where the unruly shrubs had been, tidy flowerbeds appeared. Kirill worked from early morning until late evening, taking only a short break for lunch. Over time, Victoria got used to his constant presence. Sometimes they chatted—about plants, the weather, literature. It turned out Kirill was not only an excellent specialist but also an interesting conversationalist.

Still, something about him gave Victoria a vague feeling of déjà vu. His calm speech, his gestures… It all reminded her of Alexey. She tried to dismiss these thoughts as mere coincidence.

One day, passing by the window, she noticed Kirill examining an old gazebo in a far corner of the garden, almost completely hidden by grapevines. Victoria went outside.

“It’s a beautiful structure,” Kirill remarked. “It’s a shame it’s abandoned. Would you like me to restore it?”

Her answer was sharp and final: “No need.”

That gazebo had been where she and Alexey spent countless evenings—where he had proposed to her. That was another life, another house, the one Victoria had left behind when memories became too painful. Kirill looked at her in surprise but did not press the issue further.

That same night, Victoria was going through old documents in her office. Her gaze landed on a photograph of Alexey. She froze, studying it carefully. A young Alexey in the picture looked remarkably like Kirill—the same facial features, the same shape of the eyes, even a mole in exactly the same spot.

A chill ran down her spine. Coincidence? Or something more?

Early the next morning, Victoria purposely went out into the garden. Kirill was already there, busy pruning overgrown bushes.

“Good morning,” she called to him.

He turned, and once again Victoria felt her breath catch. In the morning light, the resemblance seemed even stronger.

“It’s chilly today,” she said, offering him a thermos. “Have some hot tea.”

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling a smile that felt painfully familiar.

“How long have you been gardening?” Victoria asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

“Officially, a little over a year. But really, about three,” Kirill answered.

“And why did you choose this profession?” she continued.

He shrugged.
“I love nature. I like seeing the results of my work. Plus, my father taught me to garden from childhood.”

“Your father? What’s his name?” Victoria asked, fighting to stay composed.

“Alexey,” Kirill said without hesitation.

For a moment, the world seemed to shift beneath her. Victoria clutched the trunk of a nearby tree to keep her balance.

“Are you all right?” Kirill asked in concern.

“Yes…yes, just a little dizzy,” she managed, hastily heading back to the house.

Slamming the office door, she sank into her chair. Her thoughts swirled chaotically, like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. Kirill was nineteen. Alexey had disappeared fifteen years ago. Which meant only one thing: during their marriage, he had already been the father of another woman’s child. All their plans, their talks about having children… Lies. Nothing but lies.

Anger rose up inside, gripping her throat. For fifteen long years, she had blamed herself—maybe she wasn’t a good enough wife, maybe she made a mistake. But the truth was altogether different: Alexey had led a double life.

Kirill. His son. In her garden, day after day. Every move he made, every smile, reminded her of Alexey. And the young man had no idea who she was to him.

Days passed, and Victoria kept watching the gardener at work. Now each gesture stung with pain. She noticed more and more things about him that echoed his father.

One morning, Kirill brought her a bouquet of freshly cut roses.

“The first bloom,” he smiled. “Look how beautiful they are.”

 

Victoria froze. Alexey had always given her roses, telling her they were as beautiful as she was.

“Take them away,” she said sharply. “I hate roses.”

Kirill hesitated, lowering the flowers.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Victoria muttered through clenched teeth.

The sudden shift in her mood clearly threw the young man off.
Victoria turned away, struggling to contain her emotions. She spent the whole evening in her office, flipping through an old photo album. The happy moments she had shared with Alexey now felt like a cruel joke. What other lies had there been?

“I hate it,” she whispered, snapping the album shut.

But what to do about Kirill? Tell him the truth? Send him away? Or pretend nothing had happened?

She picked up her phone, intending to text Elena Sergeevna—maybe her acquaintance knew something important. But just then, there was a knock at the door.

“Victoria Andreevna, may I come in?” Kirill stood on the threshold. “I wanted to apologize about the roses. And ask you something.”

She nodded silently, letting him in. Kirill stepped over the threshold slowly.

“You know, I’ve wanted to tell you about my family for a while…”

“What is it?” Victoria tried to keep her voice steady.

“It’s about my father. Ever since I mentioned his name, something has changed between us.”

Her heart began to race.

“Why do you think that?”

“I notice how you look at me—like you’re seeing a ghost. And how your mood swings suddenly. Did you know my father?”

Victoria took a deep breath.

“Tell me about your parents. What were they like?” she asked, even though she already suspected.

Kirill sank into a chair, a sad smile crossing his face.

“I barely remember them. I was four when they died.”

“What?” Victoria bolted upright as if jolted by electricity. The room seemed to spin.

“My Uncle Lesha—my father’s twin brother—raised me. He became both mother and father to me,” Kirill continued.

“Twin brother?” Victoria repeated in almost a whisper, feeling her heart tighten in her chest.

“Yes. They were remarkably alike. That’s probably why I look so much like the man you once knew. Uncle Lesha legally adopted me, and since then I’ve called him ‘Dad.’”

Victoria covered her face with her hands, trying to contain the emotional storm. All these years she’d lived in ignorance…

“Fifteen years ago, Alexey was my husband,” she began in a trembling voice. “He disappeared abruptly, without explanation. Now it all makes sense. He chose you. He decided he had to be a father to his brother’s orphaned son. He became your support.”

Silence filled the office, broken only by the ticking of an old clock. Finally, Victoria spoke:

“I want to meet him. Can you arrange that?”

A few days later, Alexey walked into Victoria’s house. He had aged: gray at the temples, deeper lines on his face. But his posture was as straight and confident as ever, his shoulders still squared.

They stood there in silence for a long time, fifteen years of pain, resentment, and unspoken words hanging between them.

“Forgive me,” Alexey said first. “I should have explained everything. Back then, I thought it was the only right thing to do.”

“Right for whom?” Victoria asked quietly.

“For all of us. I couldn’t leave Kirill alone. His parents were gone, and he needed a father. And you… You were building your career, dreaming of having children of your own. I couldn’t burden you with someone else’s child.”

 

“You should have given me the choice,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I know. I see that now.”

They talked late into the night—about what had been, and what was now. About old wounds and about forgiveness. About love that had endured, even after so many years apart.

In the morning, Kirill found them in the living room: Victoria was asleep, leaning against Alexey’s shoulder, while he watched her as if afraid she might disappear at any moment.

“Does this mean everything’s different now?” Kirill asked.

Alexey smiled, though sadness lingered in that smile.

“Now things will be how they should have been all along.”

Victoria slowly opened her eyes and saw them both—two people who now held a new and vital place in her life. The man she had never stopped loving, and the young man so strikingly like him.

“Stay,” she said simply. “Both of you.”

Roses were blooming in the garden. They no longer brought Victoria bitter memories. On the contrary, these flowers once again became a symbol of love, hope, and a new life—the life she was beginning anew, together with her new family.

Varya stopped her car near a familiar house and looked at her watch. She was thirty minutes early for her appointment—she had arrived too early. «No problem,» she thought, «My mother-in-law is always happy to see me.»

She adjusted her hairstyle in the rearview mirror and got out of the car, holding a box with a cake. It was a sunny day, and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of blooming lilacs. Varya smiled, remembering how she used to walk through these quiet courtyards with Dima when they were not yet married.

Approaching the door, she took out the key—her mother-in-law had long insisted that her daughter-in-law have her own. Varya quietly opened the door, not wanting to disturb Anna Petrovna if she was resting.

The apartment was quiet, with only muted voices coming from the kitchen. Varya recognized her mother-in-law’s voice and was about to call out to her, but the next words made her freeze in place.

«How long can we keep this from Varya?» her mother-in-law’s voice sounded anxious. «Dima, it’s not fair to her.»

«Mom, I know what I’m doing,» it was her husband’s voice, who, according to him, should have been at an important meeting in the office.

«Do you? In my opinion, you’re making a mistake. I saw the documents on the table. Are you really planning to sell our family firm and move to America? Because of this… what’s her name… Jessica from the investment fund? Who promises you mountains of gold in California? What about Varya? She doesn’t even know that you’re preparing divorce papers!»

The box with the cake slipped from Varya’s numb fingers and fell to the floor with a dull thud. Instantly, there was silence in the kitchen.

A second later, a bewildered Dima rushed into the hallway. His face turned pale when he saw his wife.

«Varya… you’re early…»

«Yes, early,» her voice trembled. «Early to learn the truth. Or maybe, just in time?»

Anna Petrovna appeared behind her son, her eyes full of tears and sympathy.

«My daughter…»

But Varya was already turning towards the door. The last thing she heard was her mother-in-law’s voice:

«See, Dima? The truth always finds its way out.»

 

Varya got back into her car and started the engine. Her hands were shaking, but her thoughts were surprisingly clear. She took out her phone and dialed her lawyer’s number. Since Dima was preparing divorce papers, she would prepare too. After all, half of the family firm legally belonged to her, and she would not let her fate be decided without her participation. The chain of elite jewelry stores «Zlatotsvet» had been founded by Dima’s father thirty years ago. Starting from a small workshop where unique jewelry was made to order, the company grew into a prestigious chain of fifteen stores across the country.

Varya joined the company six years ago as a marketing specialist, and that’s where she met Dima. After their wedding, she fully immersed herself in the family business, introduced fresh ideas, launched online sales, and international deliveries. Thanks to her efforts, the company’s profits doubled over the last three years. And now Dima was planning to sell all this?

«Meet me in an hour,» she said into the phone to her lawyer. «I have interesting information about a pending business sale. It’s about ‘Zlatotsvet.’»

Hanging up the phone, Varya smiled. Perhaps she didn’t just arrive early, but just in time. Now her future was in her hands.

The following six months turned into an exhausting legal battle. Later, Varya learned the whole story: six months ago, at an international jewelry exhibition in Milan, Dima met Jessica Brown, a representative of a major American investment fund. Jessica saw the potential in «Zlatotsvet» and offered Dima to sell the company to their fund and move to Silicon Valley, where she promised him a place on the board of directors of a new tech company.

Dima, who always felt overshadowed by his wife’s successes and burdened by family traditions in the jewelry business, saw this as a chance to start his own success story. Moreover, he and Jessica began an affair, and she had already found him a house in the suburbs of San Francisco.

Now in court, Dima was confident he could gain control of the company, relying on the fact that «Zlatotsvet» was his father’s inheritance. But he underestimated Varya’s foresight, who had kept all the documents confirming her contribution to the business’s development.

At the third court hearing, financial reports were presented showing how Varya’s marketing strategy and the launch of online sales increased the company’s profits by 200%. International contracts she signed tripled the business’s value. Her lawyer skillfully used this data, proving that the modern «Zlatotsvet» was largely thanks to Varya.

Anna Petrovna, to her son’s surprise, sided with her daughter-in-law. She brought old accounting books to court, showing that the company was on the brink of bankruptcy before Varya’s arrival, and her ideas saved the family business.

The trial lasted almost a year. In the end, a Solomon-like decision was made: the company was divided. Dima received seven stores operating the old way with traditional jewelry. Varya got eight new points, including all international representations and the online platform.

«You know,» Anna Petrovna said after the court decision was announced, «my husband always said that the main thing in business is not inheritance but the ability to develop. You’ve proven that you deserve to be the keeper of his work.»

A year after the divorce, the magazine «Business Russia» published an article about the two jewelry companies. It was known that Dima’s move to America did not happen—the investment fund withdrew from the deal after the scandalous divorce, and Jessica quickly lost interest in the unsuccessful Silicon tycoon. Dmitry Sokolov’s traditional «Zlatotsvet» still maintained stable positions in its niche.

 

Big changes happened in Varya’s life. At an international exhibition in Dubai, where she presented her collection, she met Markus Stein, the owner of a renowned German jewelry design house. His admiration for her work turned first into a business partnership and then into something more. Anna Petrovna, who continued to maintain warm relations with her former daughter-in-law, was the first to notice how Varya’s eyes lit up when she talked about new joint projects with the German partner.

«You deserve to be happy, my daughter,» she told Varya over a cup of tea, sitting in the kitchen under the windows where lilacs still bloomed. «And I’m glad you met someone who values not only your talent but you as a person.»

The wedding was held in an ancient castle near Munich. Anna Petrovna, sitting in the front row, secretly wiped tears of happiness as Varya and Markus exchanged rings of their own design—unique jewelry that combined Russian and German jewelry traditions. The new brand Varvara Stein’s «New Bloom» successfully competed with the largest global jewelry houses, opening representations in Milan, Dubai, and Munich. Working with her husband allowed her to create a unique style that merged Russian traditions with European elegance.

Varya often remembered the day she arrived half an hour early. Sometimes the most painful turns of fate open the road to something bigger. The main thing is to find the strength not to give up and fight for your rights.

That morning, everything was as usual. I was the first to arrive at the office, turned on the computers, brewed coffee for my colleagues—just as I had done for the last ten years. An office manager is almost like the mother of a big corporate family. At least, that’s always what I believed.

The monitor was predictably glowing with open spreadsheets. The quarterly report, the vacation schedule, the office supply order—everything demanded my attention. I took a lunch container out of my bag: I’d have to eat lunch at my computer again, there was just too much work.

“Elena, come into my office,”—the boss’s voice came through the intercom sounding strange. Usually, Sergey Petrovich always added “please,” but not today. In his office, the scent of coffee mingled with something else—perhaps tension? Seated at his desk was an unfamiliar woman in a strict suit. “From HR,” I realized, and something inside me clenched.

“Have a seat,” Sergey Petrovich said, avoiding eye contact. “Elena, you are an excellent employee, but… the company is forced to downsize. I’m sorry, but you are being laid off.” I looked at his graying temples, the folder of documents on his desk, the perfectly neat stack of papers—probably my “severance package.” Ten years of service shrunk down to a few sheets of A4.

“But how… I have a project… and the quarterly report…” words spilled out on their own, meaningless, unnecessary.

“We’ll transfer everything to another employee,” the woman from HR was saying something about compensation, recommendation letters, and the termination procedure. I nodded, not hearing a single word.

Marina from accounting peeked into the office:

“Len, there’s a courier out there…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sergey Petrovich looked at me for the first time. “Elena, you can pack your things. Security will see you out.”

Pack my things. As if ten years of life could simply be packed away in a cardboard box. The photograph of Marina’s children on the monitor—I had been at their christenings. The cactus that the girls and I had bought for March 8th. The mug that read “Best Manager”—a gift from my colleagues on my last birthday.

“Lena…” Marina stood in the doorway, flustered. “Maybe some tea?”

 

I shook my head. Inside, I felt empty and cold, as if someone had turned off the light in a room I knew so well.

Security guard Vitya— with whom I had shared countless morning coffees—awkwardly shifted from foot to foot:

“Let me help you with the box.”

Outside, it was drizzling. The gray sky, the gray faces of passersby, the gray emptiness inside. I stood on the office steps, clutching the box containing ten years of my life, not knowing where to go.

The phone vibrated—Andrey, my husband.

“Yes?”

“Where are you? Don’t forget to buy coffee—the house is out.”

“Andrey, I’ve been fired.”

A pause. Only the sound of rain and honking cars.

“What do you mean, fired?”

“Downsizing…” I tried to speak calmly, but my voice trembled.

“Come home,” he sighed. “We’ll talk.”

At home, Andrey sat on the sofa, buried in his phone. He didn’t even look up as I entered.

“So, what are you going to do now?” His voice sounded irritated, as if I had deliberately arranged this layoff just to ruin his evening.

“I don’t know… Maybe I’ll look for something similar…”

“Well, are you just going to stand there? Maybe it’s time to look for a new job? Do you think I’m supposed to carry you on my back?”

I stared at my husband, not recognizing the man with whom I had spent twelve years. Where was the Andrey who promised he would always support me? Who vowed to be by my side in good times and bad?

“I’m tired,” I said quietly. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

He shrugged without taking his eyes off his phone:

“Tomorrow is tomorrow. Just don’t forget, the apartment mortgage won’t pay itself.”

I lay awake, listening to his steady breathing beside me. My mind swirled with fragments of thoughts: a resume, interviews, bills, the mortgage… And above all—how had I not noticed that I was now alone? Not only without a job—without support, without understanding, without love.

Morning greeted me with a new reality: now I was unemployed. At thirty-five. With a mortgage and a husband who considered me a burden.

I turned on my computer and opened a job website. “Office Manager, experience of at least 3 years, age up to 30…” The lines blurred before my eyes.

The phone chimed with a message from Andrey: “Don’t forget to pay the internet bill.”

And then I cried— for the first time that day. Not because of work, not because of money. But because I realized: I had lost not only my position. I had lost myself.

Two weeks passed. Every morning I woke at seven—a habit I couldn’t shake. But now, instead of preparing for work, I spent hours at my computer sending out resumes. “Experience – 10 years,” I typed, and then paused: had this advantage suddenly become a disadvantage?

A call from yet another employer found me with a cup of cold coffee.

“Elena, thank you for applying. Your experience is impressive, but… we are looking for a younger employee. You understand, we have a dynamic team…”

I understood. At thirty-five, I was suddenly too old for my former job and not qualified enough for a new one. What irony.

“Maybe you should try something else?” Andrey stood in the doorway, watching me close yet another job listing tab. “I don’t understand—are you just standing there? Maybe it’s time to look for a new job? Do you think I should carry you around?”

He was right—money doesn’t smell. Yet his words always left me feeling broken inside.

The next day, I took a job at a call center. Temporary, I told myself. Just so I wouldn’t sit at home, so I could contribute to the mortgage, so I wouldn’t feel that condemning look from my husband.

“Hello, my name is Elena, how can I help you?” I repeated that phrase hundreds of times during my shift. Clients screamed, demanded a manager, hung up abruptly. And I smiled into the microphone—we were taught that a smile can be heard in one’s voice.

“How was your first day?” Andrey asked in the evening, not taking his eyes off the TV.

“Fine,” I lied as I took off my shoes. My head buzzed with endless responses.

“See, it’s not that terrible,” he said, switching channels. “The main thing is to be busy.”

Busy. As if work were just a way to pass the time. As if it didn’t matter that inside I was crumbling from humiliation every time a client called me “a girl” and demanded to be connected to a manager.

One evening, I stayed late at the store—buying groceries for the week. When I got home, I heard Andrey’s voice from the kitchen. He was on the phone, apparently talking to a friend:

“Yes, my dear, she’s still looking for herself. She should at least look in the mirror. She only managed to get a job at a call center, can you imagine? After working in an office for ten years, she thought she was indispensable. And now—real life…” I froze in the hall; the groceries slipped from my hands. A milk carton shattered, and a white puddle spread across the floor. Andrey looked out at the noise:

“What are you rummaging around for? And what’s this mess? I have to clean up after you…”

“Sorry for disappointing you,” my voice sounded uncharacteristically calm. “Maybe you should look for someone more successful?”

He looked surprised:

“What? Were you eavesdropping on my conversation with Dimka?”

“No, I just came home. To my home. Where, it turns out, I live with someone who is ashamed of me.”

“Stop with the drama, Lena,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Better get cleaning.”

I stared at the white puddle on the floor and thought: that’s the metaphor for my life. Everything had spilled, soaked in, and now needed to be wiped away. Or maybe, I just needed to get up and leave.

At the call center, I began to notice other “temporary” employees. The woman at the next desk, Vera, turned out to be a former accountant. “I couldn’t find a job in my field for three months,” she explained during a break. “My husband left, my kids are in college, and there’s no real choice. We’re already considered old by employers.” I looked at her and saw my possible future. Another year here, then two. Getting used to the shouting in the headphones, to the fact that temporary becomes permanent.

That evening, I stood for a long time in front of the bathroom mirror. “At least look at yourself,” Andrey’s words rang in my ears. I looked. I saw tired eyes, new wrinkles at the corners of my lips, a gray hair at my temple. When did I stop smiling? When did I start slumping? When did I allow myself to become a shadow?

The phone rang with a message from a former colleague: “Hi! How are you? Maybe we can meet up?”

I didn’t answer. What could I possibly say? How do I explain that I wake up in a cold sweat at the thought of tomorrow’s shift? That I count every penny until my next paycheck? That my husband tells his friends I’m “looking for myself,” as if it were some mere whim?

That night, I dreamed of our first apartment with Andrey—a rented one-room on the outskirts. We were young, poor, and happy. I worked as an administrator in a beauty salon, he as a manager in a car dealership. We dreamed of something bigger, made plans. When did it all change? When did success become more important than support? When did we stop being a team?

The next morning, I overslept. For the first time in two weeks at the call center. The shift supervisor greeted me with a disapproving look:

“Elena, this is unacceptable. We have a strict schedule.”

“Sorry,” I tried to smile. “It won’t happen again.”

“I hope not. And one more thing—the clients have complained. You’re processing calls too slowly.”

I put on my headset. “Hello, my name is Elena…” My voice faltered. The smile in my voice just wasn’t coming through. The clients could sense it—the calls were becoming increasingly difficult.

By lunchtime, I realized: I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t. I took off the headset, packed my things. The shift supervisor shouted something after me, but I couldn’t hear him anymore.

Outside, it was raining—just like the day I was fired. I trudged through puddles, not paying attention to the road. In my pocket, the phone vibrated—it was Andrey.

“Yes?”

“Where are you? At work? What’s all that noise?”

“I’m not going back there.”

“What do you mean, not going back? And the money? The mortgage?”

“I don’t know, Andrey. I just don’t know.”

He was silent. Then he said tiredly:

“Come home. We’ll talk.”

But I didn’t go home. I got on the first bus I saw and just rode along, staring out the window at the city blurred by rain. Inside, there was an emptiness—the same emptiness that is scarier than any shout, any humiliation. The emptiness of a person who has lost not only their job, but also themselves.

The phone rang again. This time—it was Anya, a friend from college. We hadn’t seen each other in several months—since that birthday where I boasted about my stable job and successful life.

“Hello?”

“Lena, hi! I just heard… Anyway, how about we meet?”

I looked out the bus window. The rain had stopped.

“Okay,” I said. “Right now.”

We met at a small café near the center. I hadn’t been here before—it was too expensive for an unemployed person, but Anya insisted: “My treat.”

She hadn’t changed at all—still with bright lipstick, a ringing laugh, a confident gaze. Only now, at the corners of her eyes, were the wrinkles that age reveals, no matter how much you hide it.

 

“Tell me everything,” she said, moving a cup of cappuccino with the perfect latte art closer to me.

And I told her everything. About being fired, the endless interviews, the call center. About Andrey and his conversations with friends. About the emptiness inside.

“You know,” Anya said thoughtfully while stirring her sugar, “I went through that too. Two years ago.”

I looked up in surprise. Anya—the successful event manager, who owned her own agency, always seemed so self-assured.

“Remember when I worked in a bank? Head of department, stable salary, benefits—the whole nine yards. And then—a downsizing. At forty. I thought life was over.”

She smiled and took a glossy brochure out of her bag:

“And then I got into this.”

“A personal growth masterclass?”

I looked skeptically at the bright cover. My God, what nonsense. I never imagined she’d be into that kind of thing:

“Anya, you know. I don’t believe in that! It’s just motivational rubbish.”

“I didn’t believe it either,” she shrugged. “But I had nothing to lose. Come with me? This evening. It’s on me.”

The hall was full—about fifty people, at least. I sat there, cradling a glass of water in my hands, feeling out of place. Around me were people just as lost as I was. Well, except for my friend.

Then the speaker took the stage. A tall woman, about fifty years old, in a simple black dress.

“My name is Marina,” she said, looking at us. Her voice was deep. Calm.

“And I know why you are here,” Marina continued. “Each of you has lost something important. Isn’t that right? A job. Confidence. Purpose. But I want to ask you: What if this isn’t a loss? What if it’s a gift?”

I snorted. A gift? Seriously?

“Ten years ago I was a successful financial director,” Marina continued. “And then I was fired. And do you know what I realized? I had never lived my own life. I lived by others’ expectations. I did what I had to, not what I wanted.”

Something inside me trembled. It was as if someone had voiced a thought I was afraid to admit.

“Losses aren’t the end,” Marina swept her gaze across the hall. “They are a chance to start anew. If you have been fired—ask yourself: Have you been living as you wanted? Have you been doing what you dreamed of?”

I remembered my first course at the university. How my eyes sparkled when I organized student parties. How I dreamed of opening my own agency. When did I stop dreaming?

After the masterclass, Anya and I sat in the same café. It was late, but I didn’t want to leave.

“You know,” Anya said, gazing out the window at the twinkling lights of the night city, “when I started my agency, everyone shook their heads. My husband left—couldn’t handle my ‘adventures.’ My parents said I was crazy. And yet, for the first time in my life, I was doing what I wanted.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

“What? Regret pretending? Regret finally living my own life?”

At home I returned after midnight. Andrey was waiting in the kitchen:

“Where have you been? Your phone was off—I was worried!”

“Really worried?” I looked him in the eyes. “Or afraid that your failure-prone wife would do something stupid?”

“Lena, stop…”

“No, you stop,” a surge rose within me—not anger, but determination. “You know what I realized today? I’m not a failure. I’m just a person who lost herself. But I’m going to find myself.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” His tone carried its usual irony.

I smiled:

“You’ll see.”

That night, for the first time in a long while, I slept peacefully. And in the morning, I opened my laptop and typed into the search engine: “Event management courses.”

It was time to return to my dream.

“What is that?” Andrey looked at my laptop screen, which had the payment page for the courses open.

“I signed up for an event management course,” I tried to speak calmly, even though my heart was pounding. “A three-month course with practical training.”

“Courses? Seriously? That’s nonsense. How much did you pay?” He scrutinized the numbers and whistled. “Have you lost your mind? That’s equivalent to two months’ salary from the call center! Money, you never earned it!”

“I took part of the money from my savings.”

“From which savings? The ones we were setting aside for renovations?”

I took a deep breath:

“No, from the money I saved from my salary. It’s my money, Andrey.”

“What do you mean, your money? Maybe you should start earning properly already! What courses? You’re thirty-five!”

“Exactly,” I closed my laptop. What’s the point of arguing? “I’m thirty-five! Do you think I forgot that? I no longer want to live someone else’s life.”

He cursed and left the room with a slammed door. And I reopened my laptop and paid for the courses. Five minutes later, the student’s dashboard on GetCourse opened. I opened the learning materials and immersed myself in reading.

The courses proved to be intensive. Every evening—lectures; every weekend—practical work. I learned to prepare estimates, to work with contractors, to create event concepts. Everything that once seemed a distant dream was becoming reality.

“Look,” I showed Andrey my first project—a boho-style wedding concept. “What do you think?”

“Beautiful,” he shrugged. “But who will order that? You have no experience.”

His words no longer hurt. I had learned to perceive them as fear—his fear of change, of risk, of something new.

And then something unexpected happened. Anya offered me a chance to help organize small events at her agency.

“This will be your practice,” she said. “Unpaid,” she warned, “but with invaluable experience.”

I agreed without hesitation. Now, after the online lectures, I rushed off to meetings with clients, prepared technical assignments, coordinated the work of decorators and photographers.

One evening I returned home late—we were preparing for a wedding exhibition. Andrey was sitting in the kitchen:

“Maybe stop playing the businesswoman? You can’t even cook dinner! You could, at least, if you weren’t not contributing financially…”

“I’m not playing,” I said, taking a container of salad from the fridge. “I’m learning something new.”

“And what about the family? Or is that not important anymore?”

I looked at him intently—as if for the first time:

“You know what matters? Being happy. I want to wake up every morning thinking that I’m doing what I love. I want to be proud of myself. I want to grow.”

“And what about me? Don’t my desires matter?”

“What do you want, Andrey? For me to go back to the call center? To continue feeling like a failure?”

He fell silent. And suddenly I realized: we hadn’t truly talked in such a long time. Not about everyday trivialities. Not about bills. But about life. About what truly matters.

The exhibition was a hit. I met industry professionals. I collected contacts. I received my first offers.

“You have talent,” Anya said as we dismantled the decorations. “You notice the details, feel the style. And most importantly—you burn for it.”

At home I told Andrey about my successes. He listened silently, then asked:

“And how much did you earn from it?”

“Nothing yet,” I smiled. “But it’s only the beginning.”

“The beginning of what? A new life? You’re almost forty, and you’re talking about a beginning?” His voice was bitter.

“Maybe,” I looked him in the eyes. “I’m changing, Andrey. And that’s perfectly fine.”

That evening, for the first time in a long while, we spoke openly. About our fears. About our dreams. About how we had changed over the years. He admitted that he was afraid of change. He was used to stability. And he didn’t know how to live differently.

And I realized: sometimes you need to let go of the old to start a new chapter. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s scary. Even if someone doesn’t believe in you.

Because the most important thing is to believe in yourself.

“Lena, it’s perfect!” Masha, Anya’s friend, hugged me after the children’s party I organized for her daughter. “The kids loved it, the parents were happy, everything went like clockwork!”

I looked at the joyful faces of the children, at the photo booth with balloons, at the costumed entertainers—everything that existed only in my mind a month ago had become real.

“How much do I owe you?” Masha asked, pulling out her wallet.

“No, no—it’s my gift,” I shook my head. “Consider it my trial project.”

“Not a chance!” she resolutely extended an envelope to me. “These are honestly earned dollars. I’ve already recommended you to my colleague—she has a corporate event coming up soon.”

 

I flew home as if on wings. In my bag lay an envelope with my first fee, on my phone—three new contacts of potential clients, and in my soul—a feeling that was indescribable: I can do it. I’m succeeding.

Andrey sat in the living room, as usual, absorbed in his phone.

“Can you believe it? I did it!” I began recounting the party, the guests’ reactions, the new orders.

“Yeah,” he barely looked up, “is that how you’re going to support the family? With children’s parties?”

His words hit harder than I expected. Not because I doubted my choice, but because I suddenly realized with crystal clarity: he will never change. He will never support me. He will never be happy about my successes.

“You know, Andrey,” I sat down across from him, “I’ve long wondered: when did you stop loving me?”

He finally looked up from his phone:

“What nonsense is that? What does that have to do with anything?”

“With the fact that a loving person rejoices in the other’s success. Supports. Believes. And you… you’re just waiting for me to fail.”

“You’re being unfair,” his voice hardened. “I’ve always cared about us, about our stability…”

“Stability,” I bitterly smiled. “You know what I’ve realized over these months? Stability is not a dead point where you must remain frozen. It’s an opportunity to grow, to change, to try something new…”

“And now you think you’re an expert on life?” he stood up, towering over me. “You spent three months playing event organizer and think you’ve got it all figured out?”

“No,” I too stood up. “I learned one thing: I no longer want to be convenient. I don’t want to live up to someone else’s expectations. I don’t want to ask for permission to live my own life.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means I’m leaving.”

Silence rang in my ears. Andrey looked at me as if seeing me for the first time:

“You won’t do that. Where will you go? How will you live?”

“I’ll rent a place. I have some savings and a few initial orders. I’ll manage.”

“You’re crazy,” he shook his head. “It’s all because of your courses, your friend Anya with her ideas…”

“No, Andrey. It’s me. The real me—the one you stopped noticing many years ago.”

I went to the bedroom and began packing my clothes. My hands trembled, but inside there was a surprising clarity. As if I had been walking in the dark for a long time and finally seen the light.

Andrey stood in the doorway, watching me pack my clothes into a suitcase:

“You’ll regret this.”

“Maybe,” I zipped up my suitcase. “But you know what I’ll definitely regret? Spending one more day afraid to be myself.”

In the morning, I moved into a small rented apartment not far from the center. Sitting on the floor amidst the boxes, I felt… free for the first time in ages.

The phone buzzed with a message—a new client, a serious order for a corporate event.

I smiled: sometimes you have to lose everything to find yourself. And that really becomes the best gift fate can give.

A year later, I was sitting in my small office—a bright studio in the city center where I met with clients. On the walls hung photographs from the events I organized, on the desk fresh flowers and a laptop with a calendar scheduled months ahead.

“Elena, your clients are here,” Katya, my assistant, peeked into the office. A twenty-two-year-old graduate, she had come to intern with me three months ago and stayed on. She said she had never seen anyone so passionate about their work.

That evening, after meetings and calls, I stayed late at the office. I took out an old photograph—the one from the corporate event when I was still an office manager. How long ago that was. It seemed like a different life.

The phone vibrated—a message from Andrey. The first in half a year:

“You were right. I’m sorry.”

I stared at the screen, remembering our last conversation, his words that I would regret it. I didn’t regret it. Every day was filled with new challenges, yet for the first time I felt alive.

“Thank you for not supporting me back then,” I wrote in response. “It turned out to be the best gift fate could give.”

The next day, we organized a charity event at an orphanage. It became a tradition—to organize an event once a month for those who can’t afford it.

“Look, here they come!” a little girl named Tonya showed me a drawing: a bright sun, flowers, and smiling faces. “This is the best birthday ever!”

I hugged the girl, feeling tears well up in my eyes. That was real happiness. Not in stability, not in someone else’s approval, but in the ability to do what you love and see it change others’ lives.

That evening, Anya and I sat in that same café where, a year ago, she had invited me to the masterclass.

“Remember how scared you were?” she smiled, stirring her coffee.

“I remember. Every day was like a leap into the void.”

At a nearby table, a young woman was quietly crying, absorbed in her phone. I recognized that look—lost, frightened. It was the same look I had a year ago.

“Excuse me,” I approached her. “Are you okay?”

She looked up through tearful eyes:

“I got fired today. Ten years of service, and that’s it…”

I handed her my business card:

“You know, a year ago I was in your place. And it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Come by my office tomorrow. Let’s talk.”

At home, I opened the diary I had started after being fired. The first entries were filled with despair and fear. The later ones—plans and dreams. And somewhere in between was the moment I realized: there is no wrong age for change, no wrong time to dream.

The phone rang—a major client, an order for a series of corporate events. My hands used to shake at such calls. Now, I simply opened my laptop and began jotting down the details.

Outside, darkness fell. In the small, cozy apartment I now called home, a warm light burned. On the wall hung a painting gifted by grateful clients: a dandelion with seeds blowing in the wind. Symbolic.

 

I approached the window. The city shone with lights, full of opportunities and stories. Somewhere out there was my former life—the office with the cactus on the monitor, the despised job, the husband who never believed in me. And here, now—I was real. Alive. Happy.

The phone buzzed again—this time, a message from an unknown number:

“Hello! You come highly recommended as an event organizer. We have a wedding in three months…”

I smiled. A year ago, those words would have frightened me. Now, they sounded like music—the music of a new life I had built myself. Without fear, without regrets, without worrying about others’ expectations.

Because sometimes you have to lose everything to find yourself. And that truly becomes the best gift of fate.

Life doesn’t begin at twenty or thirty. It begins at the moment you decide to be yourself. Even if that happens at thirty-five. Or forty.

Sorry for coming so late, but we have nowhere else to go. -This is your home now too,» said his wife’s best friend, blushing, holding her son in her arms, and confidently stepping in. The husband shamefully lowered his eyes.

Svetlana was holding her little son, dragging a big suitcase into the hallway.

«Of course, come in,» Nastya opened the front door wider. Sergey stood silently, his head bowed.

«Can you believe it, the landlady kicked us out without any warning, in the middle of the night?!»

The best friend, with tears in her eyes, told them about her misfortunes.

«We always pay on time, I don’t know what got into her.»

«What’s her reason?» Nastya asked. «You can’t just kick people out like that!»

«She says some relatives are coming, and she needs the apartment freed up urgently. What can I do? We had nothing in writing.»

«Well, don’t worry, you can stay with us until you find another place. We’ll make room.»

Svetlana was the best friend, Nastya had been friends with her since childhood. She was a bridesmaid at the wedding and the godmother of their daughter. When Svetlana herself had a baby, Nastya was surprised, as she hadn’t seen any young men around her, but she didn’t question her friend.

Svetlana lived in a rented apartment. Who supported them while she was on maternity leave, Nastya didn’t know, but she suspected it was the baby’s father. Svetlana didn’t share such information.

The two-bedroom apartment where Nastya lived with her husband and little daughter was inherited from her grandmother. It was, of course, cramped for two families, but there was nothing to be done, friends must help each other.

A week later, coming home earlier than usual, Nastya froze at the door. Loud voices were heard from the apartment; the husband and the best friend were arguing. The woman quietly opened the door and entered. Not that she intended to eavesdrop, but the speakers were yelling so loud that they wouldn’t have heard her anyway.

«Why did you even arrange all this?!» shouted Sergey. «Wasn’t I giving you enough money?»

«You should have given it! Otherwise, Nastya would have found out three years ago!» retorted Svetlana.

«Explain to me, what are you trying to achieve? Why did you leave the apartment? I found this place with such difficulty at a reasonable price! And now what? Search again?»

«Don’t you understand? I’m tired of being nobody! My child should have a father and a normal life!»

«I have a family, you knew that from the start. You agreed to my terms when you decided to keep this child. What’s changed?»

«I’ve already said, the child needs a father!»

«But I’m married, and I have a daughter, I can’t be torn apart!»

«I don’t care. I’m tired of hiding. Now this is our home, and we will live here.»

«And how are you going to explain all this to Nastya?»

«That’s your problem, you explain it!»

 

Nastya put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. It was clear: her husband and best friend had betrayed her. And this had been going on for a long time and continued to this day. And the living witness to it was the little son of her friend Antoshka.

Not knowing yet what she would do next, the woman quietly returned to the corridor and loudly slammed the door, as if she had just entered.

«Sergey, I’m home!» the wife tried not to betray her agitation and spoke artificially cheerfully.

«Is Antosha still at kindergarten? Let’s pick up the kids and go to the park, the weather is wonderful today?»

She needed to calm down, immerse herself in domestic cares, to put her thoughts in order.

During the walk, the husband and the friend did not give themselves away, interacting with exaggerated politeness. But Nastya saw the angry looks they stealthily threw at each other.

The woman didn’t understand how best to act in such a situation, all she could do was cry into her pillow at night, and during the day pretend that nothing was happening. After a week, she decided she needed to share her grief with someone, someone who would listen and help.

A friend and coworker, Karina, noticed that something was happening with Nastya and offered to talk over a cup of coffee.

«Yes, it’s an ugly situation,» Karina acknowledged when her friend laid out all her grievances.

«I can’t take it anymore, Kari! I have to stay in the same house with them, and I can’t even look at them.»

Nastya had no more tears left, and she just stared blankly into space.

«Why don’t you talk to them?»

«I don’t know how. They’ll deny everything, make up something, and I don’t have the strength to watch this circus.»

«What do you actually want? Kick her out? Or him?»

«I want to kick them both out! But not just throw them out so they can live happily ever after. I want them both to regret what they’ve done. I want them to have no life together after this!»

«Well, if your hubby doesn’t particularly value marriage vows, then it’s quite easy to arrange,» the friend smirked. «And whose apartment is it anyway? Otherwise, we kick out the philandering husband, and he takes the living space with him, leaving you at a loss.»

«It’s my apartment. That’s the thing, they’re living on my territory, under my nose…» the woman sobbed.

«Alright, don’t cry, my friend, here’s what we’ll do…»

The next day, Karina sat in a car next to Sergey’s office. The workday had ended, and employees were leaving the building one by one and in groups, chatting animatedly. Sergey came out alone and headed to the parking lot. Karina quickly got out of the car, opened the hood, and leaned over thoughtfully.

The trick was old as the world, but no less effective. To make sure the trick worked, the woman had prepared: she wore a form-fitting suit and high-heeled shoes, her makeup was attractive, and the scent of her perfume was enticing.

«Miss, can I help you?»

The trap snapped shut.

«Why are you so gloomy?» Svetlana nagged at her friend. «Or did you eat something? You really look ill.»

They sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. Sergey had not yet returned from work, and the kids were in kindergarten. For the planned scheme, Nastya’s look was quite fitting; she didn’t even have to pretend.

«I think, Svet, that Sergey is cheating on me,» Nastya sighed, secretly observing her best friend.

She tensed, but her voice remained unchanged.

«What? That can’t be. And why would he, he’s got a whole harem here,» Svetlana laughed at her own ambiguous joke.

«I don’t know, but he comes home late from work, and he smells of other women’s perfume, haven’t you noticed?»

«I haven’t noticed anything, I don’t sniff your husband,» the friend snorted nervously.

But Nastya saw a spark of suspicion flicker in her eyes.

«Well, yes, you’re right, it seems unnoticeable from the outside. But I feel something’s not right…»

A week later, the friends sat again over a cup of coffee, relaxing after work.

«How are you, Nast? I see you’re looking better,» Karina stirred the fiery liquid in her cup.

«Fine, Kari, I’ve calmed down and know exactly what I’m doing. How about you?»

«Everything’s fine, our Don Juan got tangled up to his sideburns,» the woman smiled, covering her mouth with her hand. «Brought flowers yesterday, such a romantic!»

They both burst out laughing.

«And you? Started treating the target?» Karina asked cheerily.

«The treatment is in process, the target is in doubts and reflections, eats poorly, sleeps restlessly,» Nastya reported jokingly and saluted her friend.

They laughed again.

Now, having made her decision, Nastya felt much lighter. She no longer cried about her bitter fate but coldly avenged the betrayal. But the last and main act of this drama was still ahead.

«So, can we finish?» Karina concluded. «When shall we do it?»

 

«I think on Friday, not too late, while the kids are at kindergarten.»

«Are you sure you’ve decided, Nast? Maybe just kick out the cheeky woman and forgive your husband?» the friend clarified just in case.

«No, Karina, I can’t forgive either him or her. Let my daughter be without a father rather than with such a traitor.»

«Well then, it’s decided…»

«Svet, let’s go have coffee, get some fresh air? There’s a nice café nearby, let’s sit there until we need to pick up the kids. Sergey won’t be home from work until late anyway.»

«Let’s do it. After all, we really haven’t been anywhere alone for a long time. It seems like we’re always together, but no time to relax and chat,» Svetlana perked up.

Arriving at the café, the women ordered and sat at a table from where they could see everything happening in the hall.

«How’s the apartment search going?» Nastya asked.

«Well, not at all, I just started working, you know,» replied the best friend.

«What, are you kicking us out, tired of us?» the woman smiled, but Nastya noticed her tension.

«No, stay as long as you need. I just thought you don’t need our squabbles with Sergey, and they will likely happen.»

«Did you find out something?» Svetlana braced herself to listen to the details.

«No, I haven’t figured out anything for sure, but small details indicate that he’s cheating.»

Svetlana thought, it was clear that such a scenario was not in her plans.

At that moment, the doors opened, and a couple entered the café. The woman laughed joyfully, throwing her head back, the man held her by the arm, and a huge bouquet of white roses, which the woman held with both hands, loomed in the foreground.

The newcomers immediately caught the attention of the patrons. Some smiled, some looked on with interest. Nastya watched Svetlana, who first frowned, recognizing, and then turned pale with anger.

«Ah you…» began the friend but didn’t finish.

The woman with the bouquet, who was Karina, confidently approached their table.

«Oh, Nastya, hello!» she leaned in and gave Nastya a friendly kiss on the cheek. «Long time no see!»

«Hello,» the woman responded as if nothing was wrong.

«Your boyfriend?» she asked, nodding at Sergey.

He seemed petrified and couldn’t move.

«Yes, this is Sergey, my boyfriend,» Karina introduced her companion to his own wife and secret friend.

«And who are you with?»

«And this is Svetlana, my best friend,» Nastya introduced her companion.

«And she’s sure that Sergey is her boyfriend,» she finished cheerily.

Svetlana choked with anger and couldn’t say anything coherent, just some unintelligible hissing. Sergey stood like a statue.

«Well, why don’t you? Sit down, join us,» Nastya invited.

Karina nudged Sergey, and he sat down, the woman laid the bouquet on his lap.

«What does this mean?» Svetlana finally managed to say. «What is this circus?»

She spoke quietly, but her face betrayed her fury.

«Is this a circus?» Karina wondered. «It’s fun in a circus, but it’s not very here. So I guess I’ll go.»

She shook Nastya’s hand, encouraging her friend and walked to the exit. The trio remained sitting at the table.

«Will someone explain to me what’s happening?» Sergey asked in a half-fainting voice.

«What do you think, Sergey?» the wife asked cheerily, but her eyes were serious.

The husband was utterly disheartened.

 

«Wasn’t a wife and … a friend enough, you decided to get another girlfriend? What was the plan, Sergey? Live with four people?»

«Why are you even talking to him?!» suddenly flared up Svetlana. «He betrayed you, you should be driving him out, not talking!»

«And you? You didn’t betray me when you started a relationship behind my back with my husband? Antosha is his son, isn’t he?»

«What are you…» began the friend.

«No need,» Nastya dismissed. «I knew everything from the moment you moved in with us, heard your conversation.»

«Nastya, you misunderstood,» the husband found the strength to say.

«Maybe that was true before, but now everything is absolutely clear to me. You, Sergey, are unlikely to ever change, any pretty face can easily hook you. Svetlana is probably not the only one.»

She turned to her friend.

«Did you want my husband to leave me and marry you? Well then, congratulations, you got what you wanted. I’m giving him to you. He’s really not a fresh groom, and he’s unlikely to be faithful to you, but… dreams must come true! So…»

Nastya got up from the table.

«My daughter and I will go to the country for the weekend, my friend Karina has a country house. Meanwhile, you pack your things and leave my apartment, so that there’s no trace of you by the time I return.»

And she walked to the exit without looking back. On the table between the husband and the best friend, a pink bouquet wilted.

When Nastya returned, there was neither husband nor friend in the apartment. Half a year later, she learned that they tried to live together but couldn’t. Now each of them resents Nastya for «ruining their lives.

Darling, maybe we could skip going to the dacha this weekend?» I suggested, hoping for a positive answer.
«I can’t, dear,» he replied without even looking up from his laptop. «You know how much work I have.»
And so I went alone. I got on the commuter train and settled by the window. I don’t like going to the dacha by myself – there are always so many tasks that I can’t manage. But what can I do?

 

—

The train started moving, and I stared out the window, trying not to think about how I would cope on my own. And suddenly… he entered my carriage. My husband. Georgiy. Next to him was a young woman. My heart pounded as if it were trying to burst out of my chest. The favorite jacket I had chosen with such excitement suddenly felt unbearably tight, as if it were squeezing me in a vise.

He didn’t notice me. Or he pretended not to notice. She… the woman… was holding his hand, chattering away, laughing. Her voice sounded so light, as if her life were free of worries or troubles.

Where are they going? Why isn’t he at work? Questions buzzed in my head like a swarm of wasps, preventing me from concentrating. Should I get off? Hide? Or approach and ask him straight in the face: “What does this mean?”

I froze, as if I had turned into a statue. It seemed as though the entire carriage was watching me, seeing my confusion, my pain. But no one was watching; everyone was busy with their own matters.

They sat a few meters away from me, with their backs turned. I saw her lay her head on his shoulder and saw him smile at her with that smile which used to belong only to me. The tenderness in his eyes, the softness in his movements – all of it was directed at her. Not at me.

How could he? Why wasn’t he afraid to take this route? Oh, right… I hadn’t told him I was going to the dacha. Usually, when he works, I stay in the city.

I got up and moved to another carriage. It was stuffy there, smelling of dust and something stale. I stared out the window, trying to figure out how to go on living. The fields, the forests, the houses – everything passed by as if in a fog.

The dacha could wait, I decided. Now I needed to find out where they were heading.

—

They got off at the “Sosnovaya” station. She took his arm and they walked along a path leading into the forest. I got off behind them, trying to keep my distance. My heart was pounding furiously; anger and hurt mingled with a cold, sticky fear.

The path led to a small house with blue shutters. Georgiy pulled out a key, opened the door, and they disappeared inside. I stood behind a tree, unsure of what to do. Call out? Leave?

In the end, I turned back. I needed to be alone now. To think everything over. Otherwise, I might do something I’d later regret.

My steps felt heavy, as if I were carrying an unbearable weight. There were hardly any people on the platform. I sat on a bench; the cold metal sent shivers through my body. I closed my eyes, trying to block out reality. Inhale—exhale. I needed to calm down. I needed to collect myself.

I didn’t want to go home. Everything there reminded me of him, of our life. A life that turned out to be a lie. I needed time. Time to figure out what to do next.

And then… then I’d make a decision. But not today. Today I just needed to survive.

“I’ll go to a friend’s place,” I whispered to myself. Dina lived not far away, on the same branch. —

I dialed her number and, with a trembling voice, told her I’d be there in an hour. Dina immediately understood and didn’t ask any questions.

“Come over, I’m waiting,” she simply replied.
On the train, I once again stared out the window. The trees, the houses, the people – all living their own lives. And my life seemed to have come to a halt. Shattered into thousands of fragments. I wasn’t ready to gather them yet. Maybe I never would.

At Dina’s house, it smelled of cinnamon and fresh pastries. She hugged me without saying a word. And that was exactly what I needed. Just warmth. Just silence.

Tea with buns turned out to be a salvation. Dina sat next to me, stroking my hand. And I looked out the window, and for the first time that day it seemed as if the sun might eventually shine through. Someday.

«Where have you been?» Georgiy snapped at me as soon as I crossed the threshold. «Do you have any idea how many morgues I’ve called?»
I returned home only by Sunday evening. Dina – my guardian angel, even without a psychology degree – practically “filled me up” with advice, support, and the confidence that I could survive even a divorce. It was she who urged me not to delay the conversation. “By his reaction you’ll immediately understand what’s going on,” she said. “Maybe it’s not as serious as you think.” But I disagreed with her. Even if it were just an affair, does that change anything? To forgive and carry on as if nothing happened? No, that wasn’t for me.

«I was with Dina,» I replied calmly.

«And why was your phone off?» he persisted.
«Turned it off.»
«What happened?» His voice grew sharper.
«What happened?» I repeated, as if in an echo. «I saw you with another woman on the train. You got off at the ‘Sosnovaya’ station and went into that little blue house behind the forest.»
Georgiy slumped as if knocked off his feet.

«Were you following me?» he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and irritation.
«Yes.»
There was a long pause. He remained silent, and I waited, feeling as if everything inside me was tightening.

«Alright,» he finally said, glancing at his watch. «Let’s go!»
«Where?» I asked, surprised.
«To that little blue house. Rita has some very tasty raspberry jam—she wanted to give some to me, but I refused. Thought you didn’t know anything. Let’s go, pick up the jam! We’ll make it back before dark.» —

At first, I categorically refused. Then Georgiy began to explain, and I didn’t believe him. But to get to the bottom of it, we still went to the “Sosnovaya” station.

It turned out that Rita was his sister—from his father’s second marriage. Georgiy’s mother had always been against him communicating with his father, and he did it in secret. But it turned out that he didn’t trust me either, since he hadn’t told me anything. I knew he sometimes called his father, but I had no idea about a sister.

Rita’s husband was ill, and Georgiy was helping them. Sometimes he went to their place in “Sosnovaya,” sometimes they met in the city and traveled there together…

“Sosnovaya”… That name now cut like a knife. So, behind every “I’m at work” were meetings with his sister and her ailing husband? Behind every sigh about “not having enough money” – were acts of helping people he hadn’t mentioned to me?

Rita needed his help because her husband was confined to a wheelchair. And me? Don’t I need his support?

The jealousy faded, but the hurt remained. Deep, sticky, all-consuming. He had built our life on lies. Why did he decide that I wouldn’t understand if he told the truth?

The pain suffocated me. Pain at his mother, who forbade him from communicating with his father. Pain at his father, who apparently was far from ideal, judging by his mother’s harsh reaction. But most of all, I was angry at Georgiy. He was my husband, my support. And that support turned out to be shaky, unreliable.

Now I need time. Time to come to terms with all of this. Getting divorced over a hidden sister seems foolish. But living on as before, with complete trust—I simply can’t…