— And you haven’t changed, — she answered quietly, as if speaking to herself.
Sergey deliberately slammed the keys onto the table.
— This is impossible already, Natalya. That’s it. Enough.
— Enough of what? — her voice trembled slightly.
— This constant control, your endless “wisdom”! You always think you know and understand everything, and what about me? Am I nothing more than a lapdog at your feet? — he said, moving toward the door without looking back.
— Have you ever really listened to me? — her words sliced through the air.
— Don’t start! I’m tired!
Sergey was already gripping the door handle when Natalya suddenly turned toward him, her eyes filled with despair, yet she said nothing. She simply watched as he slammed the door behind him.
The room fell silent, save for the soft creak of the old wooden floor under her footsteps. Slowly, Natalya approached the table where the discarded keys lay. Next to them was a small box—a pregnancy test done just that morning.
She picked it up, glanced at the two bright lines, and for some reason, smiled. But it was a bitter, almost resigned smile.
“— He never found out,” she thought, and sat on the sofa, staring out the window as yet another gray evening began.
Sergey stood at the club’s bar, lazily swaying his glass while occasionally scanning the room. Natalya entered—a tall, tanned brunette with a confident stride—and immediately caught his attention. “Beautiful, of course, but not my type,” flashed through his mind, yet within a minute he was already contemplating how to start a conversation.
Later he would say that her smile had captivated him—warm and slightly shy, unlike the overtly provocative smiles of the other women in the club. After a brief hesitation, Natalya agreed to dance. She had only just begun to recover from her divorce and still felt uncertain, especially in places like this. Sergey picked up on it immediately.
— Do you come here often, or is tonight an exception? — he asked, looking into her eyes.
— I’m not used to these kinds of places. Honestly, it was more my friend’s idea, — Natalya replied with a slight shrug, her voice even.
There were no sparks in their conversation, yet it brought a strange sense of calm. Sergey wasn’t particularly talkative, but his demeanor sparked the girl’s curiosity.
After an hour, as he saw Natalya off at the exit, he noticed that her eyes lingered on him just a bit longer in farewell. Three months later, Sergey moved in with her.
The years they spent together were not easy. Sergey always reached for more, yet his plans often remained unrealized. The idea of opening a repair workshop had fizzled out already during the search for a space. His attempts to break into the advertising business also failed. He blamed everything—the lack of connections, the poor economic situation—except himself.
Natalya worked at a school. Her days began early and ended late, and when she was home, she longed only for silence. Sergey, unaccustomed to a stable routine, craved excitement.
Everything changed when he started working at a company that sold construction materials. The job was mediocre, but he liked the team—especially one of the employees, Sveta.
Svetlana appeared in their lives almost unnoticed. Natalya first heard her name during a dinner with Sergey’s friends, when he casually mentioned how she “answers clients’ calls in a funny way.”
— So, are you really having that much fun with your colleagues? — she asked over breakfast.
— Well, at least somewhere is fun, — Sergey replied, diverting his gaze.
These small details began to pile up. Natalya increasingly noticed that Sergey was coming home later than usual.
— Are you staying late again?
— We have a new client there; a lot of work.
She stopped asking questions—not because she trusted him, but because she was afraid of the answers.
The last evening before the fight was etched in her memory in every detail. Sergey came home late, quickly changed, and sat down to eat. There was a lingering scent of women’s perfume.
— Where were you? — she asked calmly, almost without interest.
— At the office, where else?
He said it so casually that she didn’t press further. The lie was too blatant. Strangely, it didn’t hurt her at all; it only brought a peculiar calm. The next morning came the test—and that very scandal.
Natalya stood for a few seconds, trying to process what had happened. Her eyes swept across the room, where everything reminded her of Sergey: his book on the shelf, the T-shirt left on the chair. She wanted to feel the pain, but her mind was empty. Clutching the test in her hand, Natalya walked over to the table, tucked it into a drawer, and closed it with a soft click.
Three days had passed since Sergey left. In that time, he hadn’t called even once, nor made any attempt to explain himself. Natalya sought answers to his actions, but all she found was the cold, inescapable fact: he was gone.
On Friday evening, her friend Lena called.
— How are you?
— Fine, — Natalya replied evenly, though it took effort.
— I heard he’s with a new woman now. Is that so?
— It seems.
Her replies contained no anger—only weariness. Lena began to offer comforting words, but Natalya interrupted.
— Lena, sorry, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.
She put down the phone and sat on the sofa. She didn’t cry or wallow in self-pity; she simply stared out the window, where the streetlights were slowly coming on.
The following week, she returned to her ordinary life. She worked at the school and conducted extra lessons for her students. At home, she prepared dinner even though she hardly felt like eating. Two weeks later, Natalya accidentally encountered Sergey in the city center. He was walking with a young woman.
It dawned on her—Sveta. The woman was animatedly recounting something, while Sergey, hands tucked in his pockets, listened to her. They passed by without noticing Natalya; she didn’t stop or take any steps to catch their attention. She simply walked on.
That evening, sitting in her empty apartment, Natalya took a clean sheet of paper and began to write:
Dear Sergey,
You left, and perhaps that was the only right decision in a long time. We both knew our marriage was built on an emptiness we were too afraid to acknowledge. But now, that doesn’t matter.
You don’t know, but I’m pregnant. This won’t change anything between us. I’m not writing to win you back or to evoke pity. I just want you to know.
I’ll manage. Don’t worry about us.
She folded the letter but decided against sending it. Instead, she tucked it away in the table drawer where the test still lay.
Natalya shifted her focus to herself. She enrolled in a course for expectant mothers. There, she met Irina, a warm-hearted woman who turned out to be even older than Natalya. Both were expecting their first child.
— Don’t dwell on what’s gone. It’s already in the past. You have a future, and it’s right here beneath your heart, — Irina advised.
Every meeting with her filled Natalya with a sense of warmth and calm. Gradually, she returned to her old routines—work, walks in the park, conversations with friends. At her next appointment, the doctor informed her that she was expecting a boy.
Natalya smiled softly:
— Pavel. I’ll name him Pavel.
She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she was ready.
It had been five months since Sergey left. Natalya no longer waited for his calls. Her life was slowly regaining stability: work, expectant mothers’ classes, and occasional strolls along the Volga embankment—each day was accounted for. On one such day, while returning home from her classes, she unexpectedly noticed Sergey by the building entrance. He was sitting on a bench, slumped over; his jacket was wrinkled and his face drawn.
She approached him slowly, her posture straight.
— What do you want? — her voice was calm, almost indifferent.
Sergey looked up. His eyes flitted around as if searching for the right words, but he couldn’t find them.
— I… I just wanted to know how you are.
Natalya nodded, as if he’d just stated the obvious.
— Everything’s fine.
He coughed, nervously interlocking his fingers.
— I heard from Lyoshka… that you’re expecting a child.
She didn’t answer immediately. Inside, everything trembled, but outwardly she remained calm.
— And?
Sergey stood up, but kept his distance.
— You never told me anything. This… This is my child, isn’t it?
— Would you have stayed if I had told you that day? — Natalya looked him straight in the eyes.
He looked away.
— I don’t know.
— Exactly, Sergey. You don’t know.
Natalya wanted to say more, but suddenly a weariness overcame her—not from the conversation, but from the very fact of his presence.
— What do you want? Why are you here? — she said, staring at him unblinkingly.
— I… I don’t know, Natalya. I miss you. I know I ruined everything, but maybe we… — he trailed off, unable to find the right words.
— No, — she interrupted.
Sergey froze.
— What do you mean by “no”?
— It means nothing will work between us. You made your choice. And I made mine.
He tried to speak again, but she motioned for him to stop.
— Sergey, you left. And I’m grateful to you for that. Because now I know my worth.
His face darkened, as if expecting another conversation, a different outcome.
— And the child?
Natalya managed a slight smile, but it held no warmth.
— This is my child.
She turned and walked toward the entrance, leaving Sergey standing by the bench—lost and alone.
Four months later, Natalya gave birth to a boy. She named him Pavel. Lena, Irina, and several other friends stood by her side during the most important moments. When she first cradled her son, it seemed as if the whole world had grown a little brighter, a little warmer.
Sergey tried once more to reach out, but Natalya didn’t respond. She understood that it was more important for him to fix his own life than to be part of a new family with her. His new job failed to succeed. Sveta had long since left, realizing that Sergey couldn’t support her dreams of a “beautiful life.”
One day, Natalya saw him by chance again on the street, standing at a bus stop. He looked older than his years—tired and dejected. She walked past without pausing.
Sergey remained nothing more than a memory—a lesson she had learned.
