I set the salad on the table and smiled at the guests.
“Shall we continue? It is my husband’s birthday, after all. Fifty-five.”
Andrey stiffened. He knew me too well not to sense what was coming.
“Let me tell you a story,” I said, letting my eyes sweep across the table. “About how we met.”
People relaxed, expecting a sweet tale. And at first, it was.
We met at the library where I worked. He came for technical manuals and left with my number. Three months of flowers, poems, movies. Then a small wedding. A son. A mortgage. Double shifts. His mother’s cancer—I cared for her until she died in my arms. Thirty years together. Crisis after crisis, joy after joy. A team, or so I thought.
I walked around the table and stopped beside Andrey.
“And then I learned my husband has been seeing another woman for six months. Renting an apartment for their Thursday nights. Taking her to restaurants he never once offered to take me to. And today, in front of all of you, he brought her into our home.”
Silence dropped like a stone.
“Vera, what are you—” Andrey began, voice cracking.
“That’s her,” I interrupted, turning toward the frozen room. “Nika. Veronika Somova, forty-two, clinic administrator. They met when he got his teeth done. Romantic, isn’t it?”
Veronika shot to her feet. “I didn’t know! He said you were divorcing!”
“Oh really?” I smiled coldly. “Funny how we still live together. Funny how last week we were picking wallpaper for the bedroom.”
Andrey turned pale. Tried to speak. I didn’t let him.
“You know what hurts most? Not the cheating. Not even the lies. But that he made a show of it. Brought her here. Sat her at our table. Wanted to see if his wife would notice.”
“That’s not—” he started.
“What, exactly, were you thinking?” I raised my voice for the first time. “That you could live two lives and no one would get hurt?”
My sister Valya stood. “You’re a bastard, Andrey. She gave you thirty years. Worked herself to the bone. Cared for your dying mother. And you—?”
Her husband added, “I thought you were a decent man. Apparently not.”
The room filled with shame-struck silence.
Veronika grabbed her purse. “I’m leaving… I’m sorry…”
The door slammed behind her.
I looked at Andrey again.
“The celebration is over. Pack your things. You have that apartment on Grazhdansky—since you’ve been renting it anyway. Live there.”
“Vera, let’s talk—”
“No. Everyone here heard everything. No misunderstandings later.”
Guests started to leave, embarrassed and murmuring apologies. Some hugged me. Some avoided Andrey entirely.
In ten minutes only Valya, her husband, and Andrey remained.
“Go home,” I told them softly. “I’ll be fine.”
They left reluctantly.
Now it was just us.
“Vera…” Andrey whispered.
“Stop,” I said. “No excuses. No tears. You wanted both of us. Stability with me, excitement with her. Family here, fireworks there. That’s not confusion, Andrey. That’s ego.”
“I made mistakes…”
“You’re selfish,” I said, looking out at the cold November city. “I gave you thirty years. And what I get in return is betrayal and humiliation.”
“I’m sorry…”
“So am I. Sorry for the time I wasted.”
I turned back to him.
“Tomorrow I’m calling a lawyer. The apartment is in my name. Our son is grown—no alimony. Just leave. Tonight.”
He nodded, went to the bedroom, packed silently, and came to the door with a large duffel bag.
“Forgive me,” he said.
I didn’t answer. I closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
Only then did I cry. Not from pain—from relief. Thirty years lifted off my shoulders at once. Ahead lay uncertainty, loneliness, a new life.
But it would be mine.
I brewed tea, sat in the quiet kitchen, letting the evening settle around me. The half-finished dishes and bottles could wait until morning.
My phone buzzed. A message from Valya:
“Vera, you were incredible. I’m proud of you. I’ll come tomorrow with a pie. We’ll handle this together.”
I smiled through tears.
Yes. We will.
And maybe—just maybe—one day, I’ll handle everything on my own too.
