Irina stared blankly, seeing through the window the blurred edges of snowflakes descending in St. Petersburg. On the other end of the phone, her husband’s voice, a tone she knew too well, filled her with a routine emptiness. Yura was in Moscow, on another «business trip.» Their conversation, like their last dozen calls, was about to end unremarkably with his assurance that he’d be back in three days.
«Alright, dear, then talk to you later,» Irina said, her finger hovering over the end call button. But then, a female voice, young and melodic, pierced through the line:
«Yurochka, are you coming? I’ve already filled the bath…»
Irina’s pulse hammered in her ears, her movement stilled. She hastily pressed the phone back against her ear, but all that returned were the monotone beeps of a disconnected call.
Her heart thudded as she sank into a nearby chair, her legs failing her. The voice echoed in her head: «Yurochka… A bath… What bath on a business trip?» Memories of recent oddities—frequent trips, secretive balcony conversations, an unfamiliar perfume lingering in his car—flooded her mind, unbidden.
With trembling hands, Irina opened her laptop and logged into Yura’s email—a password she hadn’t needed since trust was a given between them. The screen revealed his plans: «Honeymoon suite,» a luxurious Moscow hotel, reserved for two. The pieces of an unfamiliar puzzle were fitting together too neatly.
Scrolling through, she found emails from a Kristina, 26, a fitness trainer. «Darling, I can’t take this anymore. You promised you’d divorce her three months ago. How much longer must I wait?»
Nausea twisted her stomach as memories of their early days together—saving for a simple wedding, celebrating small victories, supporting each other through every setback—played in her mind. Now, he was a successful director; she, a chief accountant. And a young woman named Kristina stood between their fifteen years of marriage.
Meanwhile, in a hotel room in Moscow, Yura paced restlessly. The conversation with Irina had ended abruptly, and panic was setting in.
«Why did you do this?» he accused, voice shaking.
Kristina reclined on the bed, her attitude one of careless ease, her blonde hair fanned out on the pillow. «What’s the big deal? You said you were going to divorce her.»
«I decide when and how that happens! Do you understand what you’ve just done? Irina is not a fool, she’ll put it all together!»
«Good!» Kristina’s voice hardened as she sat up. «I’m tired of being hidden away. I want a real life with you—publicly!»
«You’re acting like a child,» Yura snapped.
«And you’re a coward,» Kristina retorted, stepping close to him. «Look at me! I’m young, beautiful. I can give you children. What does she offer? Managing your finances?»
Yura’s grip tightened on her shoulders. «Never speak of Irina that way. You know nothing about her, about what we’ve shared!»
«I know enough,» Kristina shrugged him off. «I know you’re unhappy. When did you last really live with her?»
Back in St. Petersburg, in the shadows of their kitchen, Irina clutched a cold cup of tea, ignoring the constant buzz of her phone—missed calls from Yura piling up. What was there to say after hearing your life dissolve into background noise of a casual betrayal?
Their past replayed in her mind—Yura on one knee in a bustling restaurant, their joyous move into their first shared home, his comforting embrace when her mother died, the celebrations of his promotions. Each memory a stark contrast to the present desolation.
Then came the relentless tide of work emergencies, loans, renovations… When had they last just talked? When had they last watched a movie cuddled up on the sofa, or made plans for the future?
The phone vibrated again. This time it was a message: «Ira, let’s talk. I’ll explain everything.»
What was there to explain? That she’d aged? That the daily grind had consumed her? That a young fitness trainer could better meet his needs?
Irina walked to the mirror. Forty-two years old. Wrinkles crinkled the corners of her eyes, gray hairs peaked through, which she colored diligently every month. When had this weariness settled in her eyes? When had she started living by the calendar, chasing after a semblance of stability?
«Yura, where have you been?» Kristina’s tone was sharp, displeased, as he re-entered the hotel room after another futile attempt to call his wife.
«Not now,» he sighed, collapsing into a chair and loosening his tie.
«No, right now! I need to know what happens next. You realize we need to resolve this now, right?»
Yura looked at her—so beautiful, brimming with confidence and vitality. Irina had been like that fifteen years ago. How had he allowed himself to betray her?
«Kristina,» he sighed deeply, massaging his temples, «you’re right. We need to resolve this.»
Her face lit up as she rushed to him. «Darling! I knew you’d make the right decision!»
«Yes,» he said, gently pushing her back. «We need to end this.»
«What?!» She recoiled as if slapped.
«This… this was a mistake,» he stood firm. «I love my wife. We have our issues, yes, we’ve drifted apart, but I can’t just erase all that we’ve had.»
«You… you’re just a coward!» Tears streamed down her cheeks.
«No, Kristina. I was a coward when I began this affair. When I lied to a woman who’s stood by me for fifteen years through joy, sorrow, success, and failure. Yes, I’m unhappy. But I’ve learned that happiness is something you build, not something you find elsewhere.»
The doorbell echoed through the quiet apartment close to midnight. Irina knew it was him—he’d taken the first flight back.
«Ira, please,» his muffled voice came through the door, «open up.»
She hesitated before pulling the door open. There stood Yuri—disheveled, weary, guilt-ridden.
«May I come in?»
Without a word, she stepped aside. They moved towards the kitchen, the heart of their home, where once they planned a future full of hope.
«Ira…»
«No need,» she interrupted, raising her hand. «I know everything. Kristina, twenty-six, fitness trainer. I’ve read your emails.»
He nodded, his face a mask of regret.
«Why, Yura?»
Silence filled the space between them as he gazed out at the night-draped city.
«Because I’m a coward,» he finally admitted. «I feared that we’d become strangers. She reminded me of the you I first fell in love with—energetic, full of dreams.»
«And what now?»
«Now,» he faced her, his expression earnest, «I want to fix everything. If you’ll let me.»
«And her?»
«It’s over. I realized I can’t lose you. I don’t want to. Ira, I don’t deserve forgiveness, but can we try? Maybe see a counselor, spend more time together, rediscover who we were…»
Irina studied her husband—older, grayer, yet painfully familiar. Fifteen years was more than a measure of time; it was a tapestry of shared memories, private jokes, and comfort in silence. It was knowing how to forgive.
«I don’t know, Yura,» she whispered, tears streaking down her face for the first time that evening. «I just don’t know…»
He wrapped his arms around her cautiously, and she didn’t resist. Outside, the snow blanketed St. Petersburg, muffling the noise of the world.
In Moscow, a young woman cried alone, faced for the first time with the harsh reality that true love is not only passion but a choice made daily.
Back in their kitchen, two souls, not as young as they once were, attempted to pick up the pieces of their shattered life. Ahead was a path fraught with pain and reconciliation, with sessions of therapy and difficult dialogues, with the challenge of rediscovering one another. But they both understood: sometimes, the true value of something is only realized through its absence.
