“Yes.”
The phone rang just as Marina was trying to convince a supplier that forty-two boxes of ceramic tile could not have simply vanished somewhere between the warehouse and the construction site.
“Check the delivery note again,” she said, holding the phone between her shoulder and ear. “The truck left your warehouse at nine twenty. Our foreman says the driver delivered only the adhesive and grout. So either the tiles were never loaded, or they were unloaded somewhere else.”
A local landline number appeared on the screen of her second phone.
Marina rejected the call.
A few seconds later, the number called again.
She apologized to the supplier and answered.
“Yes, hello?”
“Marina Olegovna Lebedeva?”
The woman’s voice sounded tired and businesslike—the voice of someone who spent all day giving people unpleasant news.
“Yes.”
“I’m calling from the Regional Trauma Center. Igor Alexeyevich Lebedev was brought to us after a traffic accident. You are listed as his emergency contact.”
Marina tightened her grip on the phone.
That very morning, Igor had been standing in front of the hallway mirror tying his necktie. He had said he was going to a meeting in a neighboring district and might be late getting home.
She had even packed him a container of casserole.
The container was still sitting on the kitchen table.
Igor had texted her from the car:
“I’ll eat on the road. Don’t wait for me for dinner.”
“What happened to him?”
“His condition is stable, but he has a broken leg, chest trauma, and a suspected shoulder-joint injury. He’s being examined now. We need you to bring his passport, medical insurance card, and a list of any medications he takes.”
“I’ll bring everything. What room is he in?”
The woman hesitated.
“He’s still in admissions. You can leave the documents at the nurses’ station. You’re his ex-wife, correct?”
Marina thought she had misheard.
“His what?”
“Igor Alexeyevich’s former wife.”
“I’m his wife. We’ve been married for eighteen years.”
There was a brief silence on the other end. Marina heard someone calling a nurse by surname.
“I see,” the woman finally said. “Then come in. You can sort it out here.”
“Wait. Why did you think we were divorced?”
“I was told you were his ex-wife. I can’t say anything else over the phone.”
The line went dead.
For several seconds, Marina sat motionless.
An open spreadsheet blinked on her monitor. From her work phone came the supplier’s voice:
“Marina Olegovna? Are you still there?”
“I’ll call you back later.”
She shut down her computer, messaged her boss that she had to leave urgently, and called a taxi.
On the way home, Marina tried calling Igor.
His phone was switched off.
She called her mother-in-law.
Vera Stepanovna did not answer immediately.
“Marina? I’m busy right now.”
“Igor was in an accident.”
“What?”
Her mother-in-law’s voice changed instantly.
“He’s at the trauma center. They just called me. You don’t know anything about it?”
“How would I know? He went on a business trip.”
“That’s what I thought too.”
“Can you come?”
“I’ll get ready now.”
Marina opened the cabinet at home and took out the folder containing their documents. Igor’s passport was where it was supposed to be. His insurance card was in a drawer of the desk.
Beside it lay an envelope bearing the logo of a furniture store.
Almost absentmindedly, Marina pulled out the sheet inside.
“Customer: Igor Alexeyevich Lebedev.”
Below it was the delivery address:
17 Novaya Street, Apartment 46.
Bedroom furniture set.
Bed.
Two nightstands.
Wardrobe.
Mattress.
The order had been half paid.
Delivery was scheduled for Saturday.
Marina read the address again.
It had nothing to do with their home, Igor’s office, or his mother’s apartment.
On the back, someone had written a name and phone number by hand:
“Karpova Yu. R. Phone…”
Marina photographed the document and put it back.
Igor’s travel bag was standing in the hallway.
The same bag he had supposedly been planning to take on his business trip that morning.
It was empty.
Marina remembered that her husband had left the apartment carrying only his briefcase.
At the time, she had not thought anything of it. Igor had said he would be home that evening, although meetings in neighboring districts usually stretched into the following day.
So there had been no business trip.
Marina put his documents, a clean T-shirt, a charger, and a bottle of water into a bag.
Before leaving, she looked into her son’s room.
Sixteen-year-old Artyom would not return from the lyceum until five.
By then, Marina hoped she would know exactly what had happened.
The Road in the Opposite Direction
The admissions department smelled of antiseptic, wet clothing, and cheap coffee from a vending machine.
Marina approached the reception desk.
“Lebedev Igor Alexeyevich. He was brought in after an accident.”
The nurse looked at the documents.
“Wife?”
“For now.”
The woman looked up but did not ask anything.
“He’s been transferred to Room Six. They don’t think surgery is necessary at the moment, but the final decision will be made after further tests. Leave the documents with me.”
“Where did the accident happen?”
“I don’t know. Ask the traffic inspector. He’s sitting near the surgeon’s office.”
The inspector was a young man with eyes reddened from exhaustion. A folder lay in front of him, with a paper coffee cup beside it.
“Are you a relative of Lebedev?”
“His wife.”
He gave Marina a quick look.
“I see.”
She did not like the way he said it.
“Where did the accident happen?”
“On the old Ozersk highway, just before the settlement of Rechnoy.”
Marina knew that road.
It led west, toward holiday resorts and cottage villages.
The district Igor had supposedly been traveling to was in the opposite direction.
“Was he driving?”
“Yes. He lost control on a bend, went into a ditch, and hit a tree. Preliminary findings suggest he was driving over the speed limit. They’re still examining the braking distance.”
“Was he alone?”
The inspector sighed.
“No. There was a passenger in the car. Yulia Romanovna Karpova.”
Marina already knew that name.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes. Bruises, cuts, concussion. They’re keeping her under observation until tomorrow.”
“What is she to him?”
“We don’t investigate people’s personal relationships.”
“But she was the one who said I was his ex-wife?”
The inspector closed the folder.
“When the ambulance arrived, Ms. Karpova introduced herself as someone close to the driver. She said he had not been living with his wife for a long time and was planning to get divorced. The paramedics recorded the information she gave them.”
Marina nodded slowly.
“Where is she?”
“In a room on this floor. Just don’t start any confrontations. This is a hospital.”
“I’m not going to.”
Her own voice sounded unfamiliar.
She walked to Igor’s room but could not bring herself to enter right away.
A television was playing behind the door. Someone was moaning softly. A medical cart squeaked along the corridor.
Marina stared at the white door handle and remembered adjusting Igor’s collar that morning.
He had kissed her on the cheek.
“Don’t miss me too much,” he had said.
He had even smiled.
Marina had always liked the fact that Igor could remain calm in almost any situation.
Now, for the first time, she wondered whether it had ever really been calmness.
Perhaps he was simply very good at lying.
The Husband Who Wasn’t an Ex Yet
There were three men in Room Six.
Igor was lying by the window.
His right leg was immobilized, and his shoulder was bandaged. A large bruise darkened his cheek, and there was a white dressing above his eyebrow.
When he saw Marina, he closed his eyes.
Not from pain.
It was the way a person reacted when a conversation they had been dreading had finally arrived.
Marina placed the bag on the bedside table.
“I brought your documents.”
“Thank you.”
Igor spoke quietly. Perhaps breathing really was difficult for him.
“How do you feel?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Didn’t make it to your business trip?”
He opened his eyes.
“Marina…”
“I asked about the business trip.”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“I haven’t said anything yet about what it looks like.”
Igor glanced at the other patients. One man conspicuously turned toward the wall, while the other increased the volume of the television.
“Let’s talk later.”
“All right. Just answer one question. Yulia Karpova told the doctors I was your ex-wife. Why?”
Igor moved his shoulder, then grimaced with pain.
“She misunderstood.”
“What exactly can be misunderstood about the words ‘ex-wife’?”
“I told her our relationship was complicated.”
“Whose?”
“Ours. Yours and mine.”
“Were we having a complicated relationship?”
Igor said nothing.
Marina suddenly remembered their last serious argument. It had happened two years earlier, when they were remodeling the kitchen. Igor had wanted dark cabinet fronts; Marina had wanted light ones.
They made up the next day.
Otherwise, their life had gone on as usual.
They ate breakfast together.
Paid bills together.
Discussed Artyom’s university plans.
They were planning a seaside vacation in May.
Igor had never said he was unhappy.
He had never suggested living apart.
He had never once used the word divorce.
“How long?” Marina asked.
“What?”
“How long have you been together?”
“Marina, I’m really not in a condition to…”
“Just give me a number.”
Igor looked out the window.
“About eight months.”
She had expected almost any answer, yet eight months still hit harder than she wanted to show.
Eight months earlier, they had celebrated their wedding anniversary.
Igor had given her earrings.
Reserved a table at a restaurant.
They had come home late, trying not to wake their son.
A week later, he had probably met Yulia again.
“Does she know we live together?”
“I told her that things between us had been over for a long time.”
“But you woke up next to me every morning.”
“I was going to explain everything.”
“When?”
“After Artyom’s exams. I didn’t want to upset him before admissions.”
Marina gave a dry laugh.
“How considerate.”
“Don’t start.”
“I haven’t started yet.”
She took out her phone and showed him the photograph of the furniture order.
“You’d already picked out a bed. An apartment on Novaya Street. Even paid for the mattress. Looks like you knew perfectly well when you were planning to leave.”
Igor’s expression changed.
“You went through my things?”
“The envelope was lying beside the insurance card you asked me to bring.”
“That’s a temporary apartment.”
“Of course. Especially the six-foot-wide bed.”
“Marina, I’m guilty. I know that. But this isn’t the best time.”
“For you, definitely.”
He tried to sit up, but could not.
“Can you at least not tell Artyom until I talk to him myself?”
“You will talk to him. But without the story that we’d been living like roommates for years. Our son isn’t blind.”
“I’m not going to make you look guilty.”
“You already turned me into your ex-wife without bothering to tell me.”
Marina picked up her bag.
“Get well, Igor.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“What about the things you brought?”
“I’ll leave them. You’ll need them.”
“Marina, wait.”
She stopped at the door.
“What?”
“I may need surgery.”
“There are doctors here.”
“That’s not what I mean. I need support.”
Marina looked at him.
That morning, those words would have made her stay. She would have called her boss, taken leave from work, brought him homemade food, and spoken to the surgeon herself.
But now “support” meant something entirely different.
Igor wanted her to keep fulfilling the duties of a wife while he prepared to move into another life.
“Call Yulia,” Marina said. “She already called me your ex-wife. She should be ready to take the vacant position.”
The Woman from the Next Room
Yulia was standing by a window at the end of the corridor.
Marina recognized her immediately, although she had only seen her before in a group photograph from a company party.
Thirty-two or thirty-three years old. Blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail. A bandage on her forehead, her left arm in a sling.
Yulia recognized Marina too.
She went pale and took a step backward.
“I’m not going to make a scene,” Marina said.
“I didn’t mean for any of this…”
“That isn’t true. If you hadn’t wanted anything, you wouldn’t have been in my husband’s car on the way to the lake.”
Yulia lowered her eyes.
“He told me you were getting divorced.”
“When?”
“Back in the fall.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That you lived in the same apartment because of your son. That you’d been sleeping in separate rooms for a long time. That you were going to file after New Year’s.”
“New Year’s was five months ago.”
“Then Artyom’s exams started. Igor asked me to wait.”
Marina studied her.
Yulia did not look like a triumphant mistress or a home-wrecker.
She looked like a frightened woman who had also discovered only today just how thoroughly she had been deceived.
“Where were you going?”
“To a holiday resort. For two days.”
“He didn’t have two days. He was supposed to come home tonight.”
Yulia raised her head.
“He told me he was away on a business trip until Sunday.”
“He told me he’d be back tonight.”
They both fell silent.
They had been placed on opposite sides of the same lie, and now each of them was trying to understand which parts, if any, had been true.
“Did you rent the apartment on Novaya Street together?” Marina asked.
“Yes. The lease is in my name.”
“Was he paying for the furniture?”
“He said he was using his own savings.”
“Ours.”
Yulia closed her eyes.
“I didn’t know.”
Marina unexpectedly believed her.
Not because Yulia seemed especially convincing.
Simply because Igor had already shown how easily he could create a separate reality for every person around him.
To one woman he said he had to stay late at work.
To another, that he was enduring a formal marriage for his son’s sake.
He had probably told his mother something entirely different.
“You can go see him,” Marina said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
“This morning he told me you’d known about me for a long time.”
Something inside Marina finally snapped.
Even sitting in the car beside his mistress, Igor had still been telling her that his wife understood everything and had no objections.
“Now you know that isn’t true.”
“Yes.”
Yulia pressed her lips together.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for him.”
“I’m not apologizing for him.”
Marina said nothing and walked toward the stairs.
A Conversation Without the Convenient Version
Artyom was sitting in the kitchen eating cold pasta straight from a container.
“Mom, where were you? I called you.”
Marina took off her coat.
“At the hospital.”
His fork froze in his hand.
“What happened?”
“Dad was in an accident.”
Artyom stood up immediately.
“Is he alive?”
“He’s alive. Broken leg, shoulder injury, bruises. He may need surgery, but the doctors say his life isn’t in danger.”
“Let’s go see him.”
“It’s too late tonight.”
“Then tomorrow.”
Marina sat down across from him.
She had been rehearsing possible words in her mind, but none of them seemed right.
She could say his father had been traveling with a colleague.
She could postpone the conversation.
She could cover for Igor for at least a few days.
But then she would become a participant in his lie.
“Artyom, Dad wasn’t alone in the car.”
Her son frowned.
“Who was with him?”
“A woman he’s been having a relationship with.”
Artyom was silent for a long time.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you himself?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
Her son sat down again.
First disbelief crossed his face, then anger.
“He told us this morning he was going away for work.”
“He told me the same thing.”
“What a bastard.”
“Don’t.”
“What else am I supposed to call him?”
“He’s your father. What happened between the two of us doesn’t erase your relationship with him.”
“What if I don’t want to see him?”
“That’s your decision too. Just don’t make it today. You’re angry.”
“Aren’t you?”
Marina looked at the container of cold pasta.
“I don’t know how to feel anything properly yet. Everything is mixed together.”
“Are you getting divorced?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly, but Marina already knew she would not change her mind.
Artyom turned toward the window.
“Did he know you’d find out?”
“I think he planned to tell me later.”
“When it was convenient for him?”
“Probably.”
Her son stood up and went to his room.
Marina did not stop him.
A few minutes later, there was a muffled thud from behind the door. Perhaps Artyom had thrown his phone onto the bed or punched his pillow.
Marina cleared away the plate, wiped the table, and only then allowed herself to cry.
No screaming.
No smashing dishes.
She sat in the kitchen with her face in her hands, trying to understand when her life had split into two versions: the real one and the invented one.
In the invented version, she and Igor were an ordinary family.
Not perfect, but stable.
In the real one, he had spent eight months choosing furniture for another apartment, seeing another woman, and waiting for the right moment to tell his wife that their marriage had been over for a long time.
Apparently, someone had simply forgotten to inform Marina.
Vera Stepanovna Already Knew the Name
Her mother-in-law arrived the next morning.
The moment Marina opened the door, she understood that Vera Stepanovna had not come to ask questions.
She had come to persuade her.
She took off her coat, went into the kitchen, and put a bag of pies on the table.
“Igor needs homemade food. The hospital food is awful.”
“Then take it to him.”
“I can’t travel across the whole city every day. My blood pressure…”
“Then order delivery.”
Vera Stepanovna frowned.
“Marina, this is not the time to show your temper. The man is seriously injured.”
“I know.”
“He’s your husband.”
“For now.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m filing for divorce.”
Her mother-in-law pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Over one mistake?”
“A mistake is when someone mixes up a date or takes the wrong turn. Igor spent eight months living a double life.”
“Did he tell you that himself?”
“Yes.”
“A person can say anything after an accident. He’s under stress and on medication.”
“Did he order furniture for another apartment under the influence of medication too?”
Vera Stepanovna pursed her lips.
“Yulia is his employee.”
Marina looked at her.
“I never said her name.”
Her mother-in-law froze.
That brief pause said more than any confession.
“How long have you known?”
“He mentioned it a few times.”
“What exactly?”
“That he had met another woman. But I never encouraged him.”
“And you said nothing to me.”
“What was I supposed to do? Destroy my own son’s family?”
“Your son was destroying his family.”
“Men sometimes get carried away. That doesn’t mean you have to cut everything off at once. You have a child together. You’ve spent so many years together. You should give him a chance to make things right.”
“He was planning to leave after Artyom’s exams.”
“People plan all kinds of things. After the accident, he may reconsider everything.”
“Especially convenient to reconsider when you need someone to change your bandages and bring you food.”
Vera Stepanovna threw up her hands.
“You’re talking about him as if he were a stranger.”
“He spent eight months turning me into one.”
“And you’re still his wife. Take at least two weeks off work.”
“No.”
“Marina!”
“Let Yulia take care of him.”
“Her arm is injured.”
“How unfortunate.”
“See? You’re gloating.”
“No. For the first time, I’m simply refusing to solve problems Igor created himself.”
Vera Stepanovna stood up.
“You’ll regret this later. A man can stumble, but the family has to be wiser.”
“A family is not a woman who silently cleans up the consequences of a man’s actions.”
“You’ve always been too independent.”
“You used to like that. Especially when someone needed to pay for treatment, pick you up from the sanatorium, or organize your anniversary party.”
Her mother-in-law flushed.
“I never expected such pettiness from you.”
“I didn’t expect a lot of things from your family either.”
Marina opened the door.
Vera Stepanovna left with the pies.
Presumably, she took them to her son after all.
The Apartment Key
Three days later, Yulia messaged Marina.
“We need to meet. Not because of Igor. There are things that belong to you.”
Marina stared at the message for a long time.
Then she agreed.
They met near a small café on Novaya Street.
Yulia arrived carrying a bag and a set of keys.
“The apartment is nearby,” she said. “I terminated the lease.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to live with a man who lied to both of us.”
“Does he know?”
“I texted him. He said I was abandoning him while he was seriously injured.”
Marina gave a humorless smile.
“Familiar wording.”
Yulia handed her the bag.
Inside was a box containing a watch, Igor’s winter sweater, several documents, and bank statements.
“He kept these at the apartment. I thought you should see them.”
Marina looked through the papers.
During the previous five months, Igor had repeatedly withdrawn large amounts from their joint savings account.
Rent payments.
Furniture deposit.
Car repairs.
A transfer to Yulia marked “for classes.”
Nearly seven hundred thousand rubles in total.
They had been saving that money for Artyom’s education and renovations to the country house Marina had inherited from her father.
“Did you know where the money came from?”
“He said he’d received a project bonus.”
“There was no bonus.”
Yulia stared into her coffee cup.
“I feel like an idiot.”
“There are two of us.”
“You don’t have to comfort me.”
“I’m not.”
They sat in silence for several seconds.
“Why did you contact me at all?” Marina asked.
Yulia looked up.
“Because he’s still lying. He writes to me that you’re ready to forgive him but are using your son to keep him with you. He probably tells you I seduced him. He tells his mother he got confused. I don’t want to be part of this anymore.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stay with my sister. I was offered a job in another city.”
“Because of him?”
“Because of me.”
Marina nodded.
For the first time in several days, she felt something other than anger.
Clarity.
Igor had never been choosing between two women.
He had been choosing the possibility of losing nothing.
A home where someone waited for him.
A son he could use as an excuse for his indecision.
A wife who handled the practical and financial problems of daily life.
Yulia, beside whom he could feel young and free.
He had planned to keep all of it until the moment he decided what he no longer needed.
The accident had simply disrupted his schedule.
An Unexpected Call from the Furniture Store
The next day, Marina received a call from the furniture store.
“The bedroom delivery to Novaya Street is scheduled for Saturday. Could you please confirm that the recipient will be home?”
“Whose name is the contract under?”
“Igor Alexeyevich Lebedev.”
“Cancel the delivery.”
“The deposit is non-refundable if the order is canceled less than five business days in advance.”
“Then deliver it to the hospital. They can put the bed beside his hospital bed.”
The manager fell silent.
“Excuse me?”
Marina exhaled.
“Cancel the order. I understand the terms.”
She hung up and was surprised by how calmly she had spoken.
A week earlier, losing the deposit would have upset her for days.
Now the money seemed like tuition for a lesson she had postponed for far too long.
That evening, Marina packed Igor’s belongings.
Not in rage, and not to throw them into the stairwell.
She carefully folded his clothes into boxes, labeled each one, and drove them to Vera Stepanovna’s apartment.
Her mother-in-law opened the door and stared at the boxes.
“What is this?”
“Igor’s things.”
“Where am I supposed to put them?”
“You can decide that together when he’s discharged.”
“He won’t be able to walk properly for at least two months.”
“Then you’ll have to prepare a room for him.”
“Marina, are you seriously not letting him come home?”
“This is my home.”
Marina had inherited the apartment from her father before the marriage. Igor was officially registered at another address, although they had lived together here for eighteen years.
Marina had never emphasized who owned the walls.
Now it mattered.
“He is still your legal husband,” Vera Stepanovna said.
“Until the court hearing.”
“You’re heartless.”
“No. I’ve just stopped confusing pity with obligation.”
Her mother-in-law did not help carry the boxes inside.
Marina moved them herself.
Their Son Visited His Father Alone
Artyom decided to visit Igor a week later.
“You don’t mind?” he asked.
“No.”
“Will you come with me?”
Marina shook her head.
“This is between the two of you.”
“What if he starts talking about you?”
“Tell him you don’t want to be involved.”
“He’s already texting me that he’ll explain everything.”
“Listen if you want to.”
Artyom returned two hours later.
He silently took off his jacket, went into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water.
“How is he?”
“Fine. Surgery in a few days.”
“Did you talk?”
“He said he loves me.”
“I think that’s true.”
“He also said you two had been unhappy for a long time.”
Marina felt the familiar sting, but she did not allow herself to launch into a long defense.
“I didn’t consider our marriage unhappy. Your father never told me there were problems serious enough for us to separate.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“What did he say?”
“That he was trying to protect me.”
Artyom gave a bitter laugh.
“Convenient. He was cheating on you for my peace of mind.”
Marina sat down beside him.
“You don’t have to choose between us.”
“He already chose.”
“No. A husband and wife can stop being together. He’ll still be your father.”
“Would you have forgiven him if the accident hadn’t happened?”
Marina thought for a moment.
“If he had come to me himself and honestly told me everything before renting an apartment and spending our money, maybe I would at least have listened. But he wasn’t planning to give me a choice. He wanted to prepare a new life for himself first, and then inform me that the old one was over.”
Artyom nodded.
“He asked me to convince you to give him money for the surgery.”
“How much?”
“He didn’t say.”
Marina closed her eyes.
And there it was—the next obligation they intended to hand back to her under the familiar label of “family.”
Money That Turned Out to Be “Ours” Only in One Direction
Igor called her himself two days later.
Marina did not answer immediately.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Artyom said you two talked.”
“We talk every day.”
“Don’t pick at my words.”
“What do you need?”
Igor sighed.
“The doctors recommend surgery at a federal medical center. If I wait for the state quota, it could take months. I can have it done privately.”
“Then do it.”
“It’s expensive.”
“I understand.”
“We need to discuss the savings.”
“Which savings?”
“Our account.”
“The one you withdrew money from to pay for the apartment, furniture, and Yulia’s classes?”
Igor fell silent.
“She showed you the statements?”
“Yes.”
“I was going to put everything back.”
“When?”
“After the project was completed.”
“Convenient project. You can blame anything on it.”
“Marina, I’m genuinely having a hard time right now.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why are you talking to me like a stranger?”
“Because you were the first one to make me a stranger.”
“There’s still money in the account.”
“There is.”
“I need half.”
“You already took your half.”
“Those were ongoing expenses.”
“Renting an apartment for your mistress is not a household expense.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“She’s already refused to participate in your version of a family.”
“Yulia left?”
There was genuine surprise in Igor’s voice.
Marina realized he had either not believed Yulia’s message or assumed she would inevitably change her mind.
“She left.”
“I see.”
“What exactly do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“The money left in the account will go toward Artyom’s education. Part of it came from the sale of my father’s country house. You have no claim to that money.”
“We lived together for eighteen years!”
“Which makes it even stranger that you spent our savings without discussing it with me even once.”
“I need spinal surgery!”
“You have your mother’s apartment, car insurance, property, and a formal job. Sell what you can, claim the insurance, take out a loan. There are plenty of options.”
“The car is wrecked.”
“You wrecked it on the way to a holiday with another woman.”
“You’re taking revenge.”
“No. Revenge would mean I wanted to make your life worse. I simply no longer intend to make your life better at my expense.”
Igor breathed heavily.
“I don’t recognize you.”
“That’s because you knew the woman who always agreed to clean up the consequences of your choices.”
“And now?”
“Now I ask myself first whether I actually have to.”
Marina ended the call.
Her hands were trembling.
Refusing a man with whom she had spent almost half her life was not easy.
But difficulty did not make the decision wrong.
The Divorce
Igor arrived at the hearing on crutches.
He had lost weight over the past several weeks. Traces of the accident remained on his face, and his movements were careful.
Vera Stepanovna sat beside him and looked at Marina as if Marina herself had put her son behind the wheel and steered the car into the tree.
The judge asked whether both spouses agreed to the divorce.
“I agree,” Marina said.
Igor hesitated.
“So do I.”
There were no speeches.
They did not have to divide the apartment. The financial issues were settled through lawyers. Marina provided statements proving Igor’s withdrawals from the account. Igor stopped demanding any share of the remaining money once he realized that the apartment, the transfers, and his payments to Yulia would become part of the record.
After the hearing, he caught up with Marina in the corridor.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
“I wanted to tell you the surgery went well.”
“Artyom told me.”
“He visits me often.”
“I know.”
“Thank you for not stopping him.”
“I have no right to prevent him from seeing his father.”
Igor leaned on his crutch.
“You’ve changed.”
“Maybe.”
“Before, we would have talked all this through.”
“You should have talked before renting the apartment.”
“I understand.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Yulia really did leave.”
Marina said nothing.
“She said I lied to her,” Igor continued. “But I really was planning to leave.”
“You were planning to leave in a way that allowed you to have dinner waiting, clean shirts in the closet, and somewhere to come back to if the new life didn’t work out.”
Igor lowered his eyes.
“Maybe.”
It was the first honest admission he had made through the entire ordeal.
But it came far too late.
“Get well,” Marina said.
“Do you hate me?”
She thought for a moment.
“Not anymore.”
“Then maybe…”
“Don’t confuse the absence of hatred with the possibility of coming back.”
Marina walked toward the exit.
Outside, a fine snow was falling.
The first of the year.
She did not feel victorious. Eighteen years could not be erased by a single court ruling, followed by instant happiness.
It still hurt.
The difference was that the pain no longer controlled her decisions.
The Trip
That summer, Marina and Artyom traveled to Kaliningrad.
They had talked about taking the trip for years, but there had always been reasons to postpone it: renovations, Igor’s work, the car loan, her mother-in-law’s anniversary.
This time Marina bought the tickets in February, before she could invent another excuse.
On the plane, Artyom sat by the window photographing the clouds.
“Dad asked me to bring him some amber,” he said.
“Then bring him some.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Why would I?”
“I don’t know. You two barely talk.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to stop talking to him too.”
Artyom was quiet for a moment.
“He uses a cane now. He can walk normally, but he can’t stand for very long.”
“I’m glad he recovered.”
“Grandma still says you abandoned him at the hardest moment of his life.”
Marina smiled.
“It’s easier for her to think that.”
“And for you?”
“It’s easier for me knowing I didn’t abandon myself.”
The sea shimmered beyond the airplane window.
Marina leaned back in her seat.
After the divorce, she had not bought herself a fur coat or immediately started looking for another man.
She had not dyed her hair or turned her life into a public performance designed to prove how wonderful everything was without Igor.
She had simply begun paying attention to what she wanted.
She joined a swimming pool.
Stopped rushing to her mother-in-law’s apartment every time Vera Stepanovna called.
Changed jobs when she realized she had long since outgrown her position.
Bought a comfortable chair for the balcony, even though Igor had always said it was a pointless waste of space.
On Sundays, she drank coffee there and read.
Sometimes she felt lonely.
But loneliness turned out to be more honest than living beside a man who had already moved into another apartment in his mind.
Another Call from a Landline
That autumn, Marina received another call from an unfamiliar local number.
She stared at the screen for several seconds.
Her body reacted before her mind did: everything tightened inside her, and her palms turned cold.
Marina answered.
“Yes?”
“Marina Olegovna? This is the courier service. You have a delivery from a bookstore. Will you be home after seven?”
She laughed.
“Yes, I will.”
That evening, the courier brought a box.
Inside were the books Marina had ordered for the balcony and a small planner with a dark green cover.
On the first page, she wrote:
“Don’t agree to something just because it’s convenient for everyone else.”
Then she thought for a moment and added:
“And don’t call yourself cruel when you’re protecting your own life.”
Her phone lay beside her.
Igor sometimes texted about matters concerning Artyom. The messages were brief and calm. He no longer asked for money, begged her to come back, or lectured her about family obligations.
Vera Stepanovna hardly called at all.
Once, Yulia sent Marina a photograph of an unfamiliar city and wrote that she was doing well.
Marina replied:
“So am I.”
And it was true.
Not because the betrayal had stopped mattering.
And not because the pain had disappeared completely.
But because one day, in a hospital, someone had mistakenly called Marina an ex-wife.
At the time, that word had outraged her.
She still believed she had to hold on to eighteen years of marriage, even though her husband had already erased her from the future he was planning for himself.
Later, the word became accurate.
And, unexpectedly, it set her free.
Marina closed the planner and stepped onto the balcony.
The evening was cool. Lights were coming on in the windows of neighboring buildings. Somewhere in the courtyard, teenagers were laughing, and a car door slammed.
Artyom was staying late at his father’s place. He had texted that he would be home by ten.
Marina set her cup on the little table and pulled a blanket over her legs.
For the first time in a very long while, she did not have to wait for anyone, suspect anyone, or rescue anyone.
She could simply sit in the silence.
In her own life.
Where no one would call her an ex-wife before she herself decided to leave.
