He pretended to be a sleeping prince, and I—a sinful fairy, until a six-year-old girl let truth into my world, a truth that smelled sharper and more bitter than hospital antiseptic.
The silence in the apartment was so thick and heavy it felt almost edible. The lights outside had long since gone out, yet Alisa still sat in front of her flickering monitor, finishing another design project. The clock on her desk showed five to eleven. Another deadline. Another sleepless night. Again, she was alone in this spacious, stylish, and utterly soulless apartment. Her husband, Maksim, as usual, had gone “to see friends.” For the third time that week.
She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her burning eyes. The ringing in her ears from exhaustion wouldn’t stop. “Here you are again, all alone,” she whispered into the quiet. “Your unbearable personality scared everyone away again.” She replayed their recent arguments in her mind—her reproaches, his silent irritation. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was always dissatisfied, always nagging. Maybe her blunt honesty really was intolerable, and that’s why he fled from home as if it were the plague.
Alisa was a talented freelance designer. Her work was in demand, clients lined up, and she earned enough for both of them—more than enough. As for Maksim… a year ago he’d “closed” his small business and had been “finding himself” ever since. In practice, that meant endless hours on the couch with a game console, mindless internet surfing, and those frequent “meetings with friends” that grew longer each week.
“Alis, stop pressuring me,” he would sigh whenever she timidly suggested he should get his life together. “You know I’m in deep depression. I need your support, not endless criticism.”
And she’d retreat, silenced by guilt. Yes, why be so harsh? He needed time. She had to be wiser, gentler, more patient.
A sudden vibration broke the silence. Maksim’s phone—he had forgotten it on the coffee table. Absentmindedly, Alisa glanced at the screen. A message from “Ksyunechka”: “Maxik, I miss you like crazy. When will we see each other?”
Her heart didn’t just drop—it plummeted into an icy void. With trembling hands, she grabbed the phone. There was no password—he’d always said he had “nothing to hide.” She opened their chat. Dozens, hundreds of messages: “My love,” “I miss you so much,” “When will you tell your wife the truth?” “She doesn’t deserve you, I do…”
Her hands shook so hard she nearly dropped the phone. She scrolled upward—photos: Maksim and a red-haired woman she didn’t know, embracing in a cozy café, kissing in the rain, laughing on a sofa in some unfamiliar apartment. His smile—radiant, carefree—was one she hadn’t seen in years.
A bitter lump rose in her throat. She dialed his number. The endless rings felt like eternity until finally he picked up.
“Hello?” His voice was relaxed, cheerful—and a girl’s laughter echoed faintly in the background.
“Maksim. It’s me.”
Dead silence. The laughter vanished.
“Alisa? What’s wrong?”
“Plenty,” she said, her voice metallic and cold. “I found your phone. And your messages with Ksyusha.”
The silence that followed was viscous, suffocating.
“Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce,” she said calmly. “Don’t bother coming home. Your things will be in the hallway.”
“Alis, wait, it’s not what you think! I can explain!”
But she hung up. The phone slipped from her fingers. She slid onto the couch, clutching her head. Twelve years of marriage. Twelve years of what she thought was love and partnership—now revealed as six months of betrayal and mockery.
She cried all night—long, hopeless, bitter tears. By morning, red-eyed but resolute, she packed his belongings and called a lawyer. Once Alisa decided something, she followed through.
But Maksim neither came home nor called. Two days of complete silence. Was he really so indifferent?
On the third morning, her phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
“Alisa Viktorovna Novikova?” an official female voice asked. “This is City Hospital No. 12. Your husband, Maksim Igorevich Novikov, was admitted with a hypertensive crisis. His condition is serious. Please come immediately.”
The world collapsed. All her anger and pain dissolved into a single, primal terror. This is my fault! she thought. I drove him to this!
She rushed to the hospital. Maksim lay pale and motionless, tubes in his veins, monitors beeping softly. The doctor explained he was in a medically induced coma after a micro-stroke.
“He can probably hear you,” the doctor added gently. “Talk to him—it helps.”
Alisa took his cold hand. “Maksim, please forgive me,” she whispered through tears. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, just wake up. We’ll fix everything.”
Day after day, she came—reading his favorite books, begging forgiveness, pouring out remorse. A week passed with no change.
Then one evening, as she left the ward, a little girl approached her—a six-year-old with neat blond braids and big blue eyes.
“Lady, are you visiting Uncle Maksim?” the child asked.
“Yes,” Alisa smiled weakly. “He’s my husband.”
“I’m Lera. My dad works here as a guard. I bring Uncle Maksim coffee sometimes. He asks for it.”
Alisa frowned. “Coffee? But he’s in a coma.”
The girl blinked in surprise. “No, he’s not. He walks and talks when you’re gone. Yesterday he danced with Aunt Ksyusha. She brings him yummy food. When you come, she hides in the bathroom.”
Alisa’s knees nearly gave way. “Lera, are you sure?”
“Of course! They laugh really loud after you leave. I just felt bad for you because you always cry.”
That night Alisa returned to the hospital. Quietly she approached his room. The door was ajar. Inside—light, laughter, his voice:
“…and then she comes in all teary, ‘Maksim, forgive me!’ Hilarious!”
And a woman’s laughter—her voice.
“She really loves you,” Ksyusha said.
“She loves my money. I just need her to sign over the apartment. Then we’re free.”
Alisa pushed the door open. Maksim sat on the bed, perfectly healthy, the red-haired woman in his lap, a bottle of wine nearby.
“Not a word,” Alisa said icily, pulling out her phone and snapping photos. “For court.”
He jumped up. “Alis, it’s not what—”
“Explain it to the judge,” she cut him off and walked out with her head high.
That night she blocked his bank cards, cancelled payment for his “treatment,” changed her locks, and threw his things out. Then she cried again—but this time with relief.
By morning, Maksim came raging to the door. She called the police. Within minutes, he was gone.
The divorce was swift. Her evidence was irrefutable—including the testimony of little Lera, which the judge accepted. Maksim got nothing.
“Alisa, give me something!” he begged afterward.
“Find another hen,” she replied coldly.
Afterward, Alisa buried herself in work—until one day she received a message:
“Hello, this is Mikhail, Lera’s father. She has a birthday soon and wants to invite ‘the nice lady she helped.’ Would you come?”
Alisa smiled for the first time in weeks. Of course, she replied.
At the party, she met Mikhail—a tall, kind-eyed man in his forties—and Lera, glowing with joy. They spent the day together, laughing, eating apple pie Mikhail had baked. His wife had died years ago; he was raising Lera alone.
“You know,” Alisa said softly, “it’s so warm here. So alive.”
Mikhail smiled. “Lera told me you helped her tell the truth. Thank you for not being angry with her.”
“I owe her everything,” Alisa whispered. “If not for her honesty, I’d still be blind.”
“You were never guilty,” he said firmly. “Toxic people just make you think so.”
They talked for hours. He listened without judgment. Soon, they began meeting often—with Lera, in parks, at the zoo. Alisa felt lighter, freer.
“You’re the perfect woman,” he said one evening as Lera slept on Alisa’s shoulder.
“And you’re a wonderful father,” she replied.
Messages turned into calls, calls into late-night talks. For the first time, Alisa felt truly peaceful.
Months later, Maksim tried to come back, pleading in the street.
“Alisa, I’ve changed! Take me back!”
“I’m marrying someone else,” she said quietly. “A man who values me.”
Then she left—with Mikhail and Lera waiting in the car, heading for their first family weekend together.
Lera chattered from the back seat: “Tatyana Alisa, are you staying with us forever?”
“If she doesn’t mind,” Mikhail smiled.
“I don’t,” Alisa said, tears of joy in her eyes.
They married six months later. A simple, heartfelt ceremony. Lera, radiant, told everyone: “Now I have a real mom and dad!”
They moved to a cozy house with a garden and a dog named Rex. Alisa worked with joy again; Mikhail found a new job nearby. Their life finally felt whole.
One evening, an unknown number rang. Maksim’s voice.
“Alisa… I was a fool. Please forgive me.”
“I already have,” she said gently. “Because holding on to hate is like drinking poison. I want to live. Be well, Maksim.”
She hung up. Mikhail embraced her.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “Now everything truly is.”
Sometimes, to find real happiness, you must walk through betrayal and pain. Alisa did—and found a family she never dared dream of.
And it all began with a little girl in blue hair ties, brave enough to tell a painful truth.
Because truth, though it stings, always smells of freshness—never rot
