Heavy streams of rain drummed against the cornices of the old apartment on Lipovaya Alley. As always, St. Petersburg revealed its special beauty under the pouring sky—streetlamps reflecting in puddles to create a whimsical mosaic of faint lights. Miroslava stood in front of the mirror, studying her reflection in a new dress the color of a velvet night. The silk clung to her figure, but her husband’s expression showed only annoyance.
“You just refuse to admit the obvious. Because you’re my wife, I don’t want my colleagues to see you like this. I’m ashamed. In that outfit and those heels, you look… ridiculous! It’s high time you lost some weight.” Vladimir delivered these words as though he were pronouncing her sentence.
Miroslava felt a lump rise in her throat. Ten years of marriage, and she still couldn’t be good enough for him. Vladimir fastened his cufflinks—a wedding gift from her father. Gold, inlaid with rubies, they were an expensive luxury, just like so many other things in their life.
“In heels, you look like a cow on ice!” he sneered, watching her struggle to balance in her new shoes. “No, my dear, tonight you’re staying home.”
His velvety voice, once filled with declarations of love, now sounded like a sharp blade. Miroslava sank into a chair, feeling her knees trembling treacherously. In the next room, an antique clock—a gift from her mother-in-law, Alevtina Grigoryevna—quietly counted off the seconds.
Vladimir’s phone vibrated, signaling a new message. He smiled—that special smile she hadn’t seen in many months.
“Ulyana will be waiting for me at the entrance,” he muttered, not realizing he was speaking out loud.
Miroslava froze. Ulyana. So that’s the name of the woman he was ready to forget her for. A beautiful, resonant name—just like an actress’s. Probably she was slender, elegant, and self-assured, too.
Vladimir left, trailing the scent of expensive cologne and leaving behind a crushing silence. Only when the sound of his Mercedes faded into the rain did Miroslava allow herself to cry.
Suddenly, the phone rang, startling her with its loudness. The screen displayed the name “Alevtina Grigoryevna.”
“Mirochka, dear, are you home?” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded worried.
“Yes, Alevtina Grigoryevna. Vladimir left for his corporate event.”
“Alone?” There was such understanding in that simple question that Miroslava’s eyelids began to quiver again.
“He said I embarrass him with my appearance.”
A pause followed. Then Alevtina Grigoryevna spoke decisively:
“Wait for me. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
She arrived as majestic as always, dressed in an elegant suit the color of the sea.
“Stand up,” she commanded, entering the room. “We’re going to that corporate party.”
“But…”
“No objections, my dear. I headed a surgical department for thirty years, I know exactly what ‘corporate events’ are like. And I definitely know my son is behaving like the worst kind of scoundrel.”
An hour later, Miroslava barely recognized herself in the mirror. Alevtina Grigoryevna had brought along her own hairdresser and makeup artist. Now Miroslava’s dark hair fell in soft waves, the makeup highlighted the depth of her green eyes, and the new dress—deep emerald, from her mother-in-law’s personal collection—fit her figure perfectly.
“You’ve always been stunning,” said Alevtina Grigoryevna, gently adjusting a pearl necklace around her daughter-in-law’s neck. “It’s just that someone made you forget.”
The restaurant Zolotoy Vek sparkled with bright lights. They were greeted personally by the owner of the establishment, Oleg Valentinovich, an old acquaintance of Alevtina Grigoryevna.
“Alechka! What a pleasant surprise!” he said, elegantly kissing her hand.
“I dropped by to check on my son at his corporate event. May I present my daughter-in-law, Miroslava.”
Oleg Valentinovich examined Miroslava attentively:
“Ah, so you’re Vladimir’s wife? Strange… today he introduced us to another lady…”
From the main hall came peals of laughter. Miroslava spotted her husband—he was standing by the bar, embracing a tall blonde in a red evening tunic.
“Allow me to introduce my wife, Ulyana,” Vladimir announced loudly, but was cut off by the decisive steps of his mother, who entered the room with regal composure, Miroslava at her side.
“My son,” her voice cut through the noise like a whistle of command, “don’t you want to introduce us to your… companion?”
Vladimir visibly paled. The blonde tried to pull away, but he instinctively kept hold of her.
“Mother? Mira? What are you doing here?”
“We came to witness your little farce,” Alevtina Grigoryevna replied icily. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce my son’s true wife—Miroslava Alexandrovna, a professional nurse anesthetist.”
A murmur arose in the hall. The blonde finally broke free from Vladimir’s arms and quickly moved aside.
“Vladimir Igorevich,” came a new voice. A middle-aged man approached them. “It seems we’ve been misled.”
“Grigory Andreevich, please allow me to explain…”
“No need,” the holding company director grimaced. “I value honesty in my employees. By the way, Miroslava Alexandrovna,” he turned to Miroslava, “there’s an opening for a senior nurse in our corporate clinic. Would you be interested in discussing the terms?”
The evening was unfolding like a whirlwind. Miroslava talked with Grigory Andreevich about career possibilities while Vladimir wandered helplessly among colleagues, unable to find his footing. The blonde disappeared as abruptly as she had appeared.
“You have an impressive résumé,” Grigory Andreevich said, scrolling through information on Miroslava’s phone. “Why did you leave medicine?”
Miroslava glanced briefly at her husband:
“Vladimir believed a wife should be a homemaker.”
“I can’t agree with that,” the director said, smiling. “My late wife was a successful neurosurgeon, and it never affected our marriage.”
Suddenly, an excited whisper swept through the hall. The blonde had returned, now pale as a sheet and holding her stomach.
“Vladimir,” her voice trembled, “we need to talk. Alone.”
Alevtina Grigoryevna, who had been conversing quietly with Oleg Valentinovich, spun around sharply:
“What about, if it’s not a secret? Your imaginary pregnancy?”
The blonde staggered:
“How did you…?”
“My dear, thirty years in medicine don’t go by unnoticed. I can spot a staged faint instantly. By the way, my son has a medical record with a discouraging diagnosis.”
Vladimir flushed scarlet:
“Mother!”
“Be quiet, my miserable boy,” she snapped. “I’ve covered for your antics all my life, but this little show is too much.”
Miroslava stared at her husband, no longer recognizing him. Where was the self-assured man who had criticized her looks just an hour ago? Now he seemed like a bewildered teenager.
“Grigory Andreevich,” Vladimir tried to pull himself together, “I can explain everything. It’s about Oleg Stanislavovich’s documents…”
“Ah, yes, the photos supposedly implicating him in an accident?” The director took a folder from his briefcase. “We’ve already investigated them. Excellent Photoshop work, I must say. But there’s a problem—Oleg was with me that day at a conference in Moscow. We have video evidence.”
Ulyana vanished again without a trace, leaving Vladimir lost in complete confusion—he was breathing heavily, like a marathon runner crossing the finish line.
“Prepare your personal belongings, Vladimir Igorevich,” Grigory Andreevich said coldly. “As of Monday, your contract will be terminated.”
Miroslava stood up from the table:
“I’ll be going too. Thank you for the job offer, Grigory Andreevich. I need time to think it over.”
“Mira,” Vladimir grabbed her wrist, “forgive me. I’ll fix everything. I swear…”
“No,” she gently freed herself from his grasp. “You won’t change.”
Twelve months passed. St. Petersburg now bloomed with bright spring colors. Miroslava walked confidently down the hospital corridor, reviewing patients’ medical charts. The white coat with the words “Senior Nurse” suited her perfectly—at least, that’s what her colleagues thought.
“Good morning, Miroslava Alexandrovna,” Grigory Andreevich suddenly appeared around the corner, holding a bouquet of red roses. “Do you have a minute to drop by my office?”
“I have my rounds in fifteen minutes,” she smiled.
“This won’t take long. I just want to invite you to dinner. It’s the anniversary of your joining our clinic.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly:
“You remembered the date?”
“Everything about you stays in my memory,” he replied.
Around the corner came Alevtina Grigoryevna—she still held herself regally even after her recent heart surgery.
“I knew I’d find you two in pleasant conversation,” she said, affectionately embracing Miroslava. “How’s my favorite patient in Room 302?”
“He’s on the mend. By the way,” Miroslava pulled an envelope from her coat pocket, “I just received the court documents. The divorce is officially finalized.”
“Ah, I hoped until the last moment that Vladimir would come to his senses,” sighed Alevtina Grigoryevna. “But the business with those forged papers… He was always spoiled, yet I never thought he was capable of something so low.”
“How is he?” Miroslava asked quietly.
“He moved to Yuzhnomorsk. Works as a manager in some company. He calls once a month begging for money…” Alevtina Grigoryevna shook her head. “But you, my dear, you’ve truly blossomed. Your talents have really shown.”
“Thank you,” Miroslava said, hugging her former mother-in-law warmly. “For everything.”
“No thanks needed, my dear. You’re like a daughter to me and always will be, no matter the circumstances.”
Grigory Andreevich cleared his throat softly:
“Alevtina Grigoryevna, will you be joining us this evening? We’re celebrating the anniversary of Miroslava’s work with us and… perhaps another occasion?”
He tapped meaningfully on the pocket of his jacket, which clearly bulged with the outline of a small velvet box.
“I’ll certainly be there,” Alevtina Grigoryevna smiled. “Just as long as there are no surprises like the ones at that corporate party!”
Miroslava laughed. A year ago, she could never have imagined that her husband’s betrayal would become the starting point for a new life—a life in which she was no longer someone’s shadow or just a housewife, but a professional, a loved woman, a complete person in her own right.
Outside, the city buzzed with springtime energy. Now she felt confident in any shoes—not because of the heels, but because of her inner strength. If Vladimir saw her now, he would not recognize his former wife in this self-assured beauty.
“I need to make my rounds,” Miroslava said, giving Alevtina Grigoryevna a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight?”
“Tonight it is,” Grigory Andreevich nodded, and there was a sparkle in his eyes that hinted at something more than just an ordinary celebration.
Walking down the corridor, Miroslava heard the heartbeat of her new life in every echo of her heels—a life free from humiliation and self-deception, a life she had built with her own hands, helped by those who truly valued her for who she was.
In her coat pocket, she kept an ultrasound photo—a special surprise she planned to reveal that evening. A new miracle that would finally prove her former husband wrong in every way—about his accusations and about the diagnosis he had once attributed to her…
