“So You Thought the Young Girl Was Better? And Now You Want to Come Back?” — His Wife Said Coldly
Rita stared at her phone, where a message from a colleague flashed:
“I saw a girl in Artyom’s office today. They were sitting very close, laughing.”
Suddenly, the phone felt unbearably heavy in her hands.
Ten years.
Ten years of marriage replayed in her mind like scenes from an old film.
She set the phone down and walked to the kitchen. Out of habit—one that had stayed with her since university—she reached for the kettle. Making tea always helped in moments of anxiety.
Rita had met Artyom when he was just starting out at a tech firm. She was already a lead specialist in a reputable advertising agency. She saw his potential immediately and supported him every step of the way.
When Artyom was laid off—twice—due to company cuts, it was Rita who kept the family afloat.
“Ritulya, this is just temporary,” Artyom would say, eyes downcast with guilt.
“I’ll find something worthwhile.”
“Of course, you will,” Rita would hug him tightly, feeling the tension in his shoulders.
“You’ll make it.”
But from the very beginning, Artyom’s mother, Yelena Petrovna, was against their marriage. At family gatherings, she never missed an opportunity to throw barbed comments:
“Artyomushka, Slava’s wife is a real homemaker. She stays home, makes borscht, doesn’t run around in offices. And yours, Rita? All she thinks about is her career. Is that how a wife should be?”
Rita had learned to ignore those jabs. After all, it wasn’t her mother-in-law’s place to decide how she and Artyom lived their lives.
But in the last six months, something had shifted. Artyom had become distant. He often stayed late at work.
“It’s a tough project,” he would mutter over his shoulder as he came home past midnight.
Rita noticed his new shirt, his expensive cologne, his neatly styled hair. Artyom had never cared much about appearances before—he used to live in T-shirts and jeans.
“You’ve changed,” she said once during dinner.
“In what way?” Artyom shrugged, not looking up from his plate.
“You’ve become… distant.”
“Nonsense. Just a lot of work.”
It was as if his mother had smelled blood in the water—she began visiting more often, preaching the importance of a man feeling like the head of the household.
“You do everything, Rita. What does that leave for a man?” she’d sigh.
“Artyomushka needs care and attention. And you’re always at work.”
Rita wanted to scream that her job had bought the apartment, the car, the vacations. That while Artyom was “finding himself,” she had held everything together. But she bit her tongue. She didn’t want another scene.
Two months earlier, a new girl had joined Artyom’s company—Nastya, 25 years old, marketing specialist. Rita had seen her briefly at the office party: petite, doll-faced, and blonde.
“You can’t imagine how clueless she is,” Artyom had said back then.
“She doesn’t know the basics. I have to explain everything.”
Now those words rang differently. Rita remembered the way Nastya had looked at Artyom at that party—with admiration, like he was some kind of mentor. She laughed at his jokes. Artyom had straightened his back that night, looking ten years younger.
A phone call interrupted her thoughts.
Yelena Petrovna.
“Ritochka, are you home? I need to talk to you. I’ll drop by quickly.”
She lived just one floor above, so she didn’t wait for permission.
Moments later, she barged into the apartment without even removing her shoes.
“I know everything!” she declared, flopping into a chair.
“Lyudmila Vasilievna told me. Her niece works at Artyom’s company.”
“Knows what?” Rita asked, her fingers trembling.
“About that Nastya. A lovely girl, actually. Sweet, polite. And she brings lunch to work for Artyomushka.”
Rita stood up slowly, the kitchen suddenly stifling.
“She brings him lunch?” she said, opening the window for air.
“Since when?”
“About two months, I’d say,” Yelena Petrovna said, fixing her hair.
“You’re always too busy to take care of your husband. A man needs affection.”
Rita silently unlocked her phone and opened Artyom’s texts.
There it was:
“I’ll be late tonight.” And another. And another. Two months of excuses.
“You know what, Yelena Petrovna?” Rita placed her phone on the table.
“Let’s wait for Artyom. We’ll all talk together.”
“What’s there to talk about? You’re the problem. Your career always came first. Now you’re shocked he found someone who appreciates him.”
Rita barely listened. Her work phone buzzed. A new message. She glanced at it—and froze.
Artyom had sent her a text meant for Nastya:
“She doesn’t understand me at home. Rita keeps pushing me about her success. It’s so easy and simple with you. Can we meet tonight?”
Then, a follow-up:
“Sorry. Wrong chat.”
“Well, thank goodness for that mistake,” Rita said quietly, flipping the phone so her mother-in-law could see.
“Now we don’t have to wait for him.”
Yelena Petrovna leaned over, reading:
“He’s right! You crushed him with your independence.”
Just then, the front door opened. Artyom stood in the doorway, looking from his wife to his mother.
“What’s going on?”
“You tell me,” Rita said calmly, holding up the phone.
“About Nastya. The lunches. How we don’t understand you at home.”
Artyom turned pale but recovered quickly.
“Fine. Yes, Nastya and I have been seeing each other. She’s young, fun, doesn’t scold me. With her, I feel like a man—not a constant disappointment.”
“That’s right, Artyomushka!” his mother clapped proudly.
“I always said Rita wasn’t the one for you.”
Rita looked at them both and didn’t recognize the man she’d shared ten years with. Where was the Artyom who had once been proud of her success?
“You know what?” she said, pulling out a suitcase.
“Pack your things. If you want an easy life, go. Just don’t come crawling back when Nastya finds someone richer.”
“How dare you!” Yelena Petrovna barked.
“Nastya isn’t like that!”
“Of course not,” Rita said, calmly packing.
“She just likes expensive gifts and fine restaurants. I wonder if she knows half your salary goes to the car loan. Or that the apartment is in my name?”
Artyom flinched.
“Always about money with you.”
“Not anymore. Here’s your suitcase. The door is right there. You can pick up the divorce papers yourself.”
Artyom grabbed the bag but paused in the doorway.
“Can’t we talk? You can’t just erase ten years like this…”
“You already did,” she said quietly.
“Go. Nastya is waiting.”
His mother tugged on his sleeve.
“Come on, son. You can stay with me. Things with Nastya will work out.”
When the door finally shut, Rita slowly slid to the floor. Ten years—shattered by her husband’s desire to feel important next to a younger woman.
The following weeks passed in a haze. Rita threw herself into work and took on a long-postponed project. Evenings were for the gym—physical exhaustion kept her mind still. Friends invited her out, tried to set her up. She always declined.
Then, the calls began.
Artyom texted daily.
At first, he demanded to split assets, threatened court. Then came the apologies, the memories.
Rita didn’t reply.
“You know what I realized?” she told a friend over coffee.
“I’m not angry at Nastya. She’s young and wants a pretty life.
What hurts is this—Artyom spent ten years pretending to be proud of me.
But deep down, he resented my success.”
“You’re strong,” her friend squeezed her hand.
“You’ll get through this.”
“I already have.”
A month later, she ran into Nastya at the mall. The girl looked irritated.
“He’s broke,” she said without shame.
“Average salary, drowning in debt. I thought he was some hotshot. Turns out…” She waved dismissively.
