Andrey had been carrying the same thought inside him for several months — he wanted to end his marriage. Quietly, without scandals or dramatic scenes. Just leave. Silently, as if one day he walked out of the house and never came back.
He and Maria had lived together for seven years. No children, no loud quarrels, no strong emotions. Their life was steady, calm, and painfully predictable. Every morning was a copy of the previous one. One day Andrey realized he couldn’t remember how last Saturday differed from this one or what had happened two weeks ago on Monday.
Maria was the perfect wife. Surprisingly perfect — and that became irritating. The house was always tidy, the food hot and tasty, everything done in advance without requests. Once Andrey only thought about coffee, and a moment later Maria came in with a cup.
“How do you do that?” he asked, slightly confused.
“What exactly?”
“You always know what I want.”
“I just feel you… because I love you very much,” she said lightly, as if talking about the weather.
He nodded. No hugs, no kisses — just a brief gesture of thanks, as if tipping a waiter. Inside, it was empty. Feelings faded gradually — no anger, no resentment, not even simple excitement. Only indifferent routine. He thanked her mechanically: “Thanks,” he said almost without thinking. She seemed to understand everything. She started visiting his office less often, touching him less, going to bed earlier.
And one day he noticed she stopped meeting him at the door. She went to bed earlier, silently, as if she already knew — he hadn’t really been there for a long time.
Valeria appeared suddenly — a young intern who came to their department for a couple of months. She was the opposite of Maria: lively, energetic, with a spark in her eyes and a laugh that could break the monotony of the office. Everything about her moved — her voice, movements, even how she placed the cup on the table.
Andrey noticed her immediately, although he tried not to show it. She was too young, too free. But Valeria seemed to feel his gaze. She lingered near his office, fixed her hair, started conversations about nothing — but as if behind every word something else was hidden.
He caught himself thinking about her. Imagining her voice behind his back, seeing her reflection in the windows. For the first time in years, fantasies awakened in him something like a living feeling. He felt guilty but quickly pushed it away. After all, nothing was happening.
Until one day it did.
It was the end of the workday. The elevator. They were alone. The doors closed. Silence. And suddenly Valeria stepped closer. Without unnecessary words. Kissed him. Just like that.
“I wanted to find out what you taste like,” she whispered, walking out of the elevator confidently.
Andrey stood inside, stunned. His heart was pounding loudly. His whole body felt like it was burning.
She no longer made obvious moves. But every gesture became a hint. Blouses, glances, intonations — everything was an invitation. She played softly, skillfully, without pressure. And he entered the game — in thoughts, looks, and how he stopped hearing Maria’s voice at dinner.
Valeria took all his attention. And Andrey didn’t notice how thoughts of betrayal turned into real treason.
Somehow, they ended up at a hotel on the outskirts of the city. Rain outside, silence in the elevator, the scent of perfume. Everything happened quickly, as if not seriously. He felt like he had broken free from captivity. He wasn’t a man cheating on his wife — he was someone reclaiming his right to live.
When they left, Valeria fixed her hair and winked:
“We’re adults. No obligations.”
He nodded. But inside, a troubling empty space was beginning to grow.
At home, dinner waited under plastic wrap. Maria slept in the living room, by the nightlight. He sat next to her, looked at her. She opened her eyes. They stared at each other for a long time. Without words. As if everything had already been said.
He wanted to say something — “sorry,” “it’s not you,” “I just lost myself” — but couldn’t. She didn’t ask. Didn’t cry. Just turned to the wall.
Andrey felt that he had betrayed not his wife — he had betrayed the one who was still waiting for him. Who believed.
But the next day he still went to Valeria.
A few days later, Andrey left on a business trip. He knew a conversation with Maria was inevitable, but kept postponing it. Valeria followed, as if that was meant to be. They spent evenings in the hotel room as if no past had ever existed between them.
On the third day, Andrey was returning alone. It was raining. He was crossing the street when suddenly a woman with a stroller ran out in front of him. A car appeared from around the corner at the same moment. Andrey managed to push them aside. The impact hit him.
The coma lasted several days. The diagnosis was alarming — spinal injury, possible disability. When he woke up, the first person he saw was Maria. She sat by his bed, holding his hand. No tears, no hysteria — just there.
Valeria appeared only on the third day. She entered the ward but did not approach the bed. Just said:
“I’m young. I didn’t expect this. It’s not my destiny.”
She left easily, as if leaving a restaurant after dinner.
Andrey realized she didn’t know him at all. And never wanted to.
Maria stayed nearby. She cleared the table, talked to doctors, sometimes slept on a chair by his bed. Sometimes she just held his hand.
When he was discharged, everything went downhill. Working became impossible. He was gently fired. Valeria met him in the elevator with the new boss — tall, confident. She didn’t even look at Andrey.
Life became more expensive. Treatment, rehabilitation, medicine — all paid for by a single teacher’s salary. One day Andrey noticed that Maria sold her earrings.
“They were just things,” she said. “I didn’t want you to suffer.”
In spring, he invited her to a small cozy restaurant. Modest, with live music and soft light. He had carefully chosen the place. Maria laughed, looked at him with warmth he hadn’t noticed before.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when the dessert had already cooled.
Maria looked straight at him:
“I would give my life for you… but I don’t want anything anymore. I just want you to live.”
He fell silent, then, for the first time in a long while, gently took her hand.
A week later, there was a call from Alexey Lvovich — the businessman whose life Andrey had saved at the crossing. The father of the woman with the stroller spoke firmly and confidently:
“I owe you. And I want to make it right. I have a business for you. You won’t have to move much — just your head and dedication. I will teach you the rest.”
So work returned to his life. Purpose. Even something like hope.
It seemed everything was falling into place: a new project, stable income, recovery process, even rare but genuine smiles again appearing on his face. Andrey often caught himself thinking he wanted to regain not just peace — he wanted to get Maria back. Truly. Completely.
He was going to propose. Not as a husband — as someone who finally understood whom he really loved all these years.
But she left first.
It all happened suddenly. In the morning, Maria prepared breakfast as usual, adjusted the blanket on his chair, kissed his cheek. And by evening, she was gone. Only a note on the table — short, like a fragment of a thought.
“I knew everything. About Valeria. About the hotel. I was silent. Because then… I lost our child. I didn’t want to live. But I stayed. For you. Now I’m leaving — for myself.”
Andrey reread the note over and over. His hands trembled, his heart beat fast and dull, but inside was a strange numbness. He didn’t know pain could be so quiet. Not piercing, not tearing — just empty. He didn’t realize before that one day he destroyed something that can’t be restored.
He found her the next day. Stood at the door, rang, begged her to open. Maria came out — calm, ordinary, in a simple sweater and jeans. She looked straight at him, without tears, without pain.
“Sorry. I didn’t know. Didn’t think. I…”
“You knew everything, Andrey. You just didn’t care.”
She turned and disappeared into the apartment. The door closed silently. He was left alone on the landing — like then, after the accident. Only now no one held his hand.
Three years passed.
During that time, Andrey achieved a lot. The business Alexey Lvovich offered expanded, turning into a whole network. He became influential, respected, wealthy. He had a team, an office with a view, trips abroad, new connections…
But every night he returned to an empty, perfectly clean apartment. Without the smell of perfume, without laughter, without signs of life. Only silence and thoughts that would not let him rest. He no longer drank coffee in the morning — as if the meaning disappeared along with Maria’s unprompted bringing of it.
He was called cold-blooded, calculating, restrained. He did not mind. The cold really lived inside — not outside, but deep in his chest, as if instead of blood his veins ran something icy.
One day, returning from the office, he heard a familiar song on the radio. A female voice, a bit hoarse, sang: “I miss you…” Andrey stopped sharply by the roadside and stared at the windshield. The melody struck the heart, pulling out everything he had hidden for so long.
He called the studio. Asked if he could order a message. Half an hour later, the song played again, now with his words:
“For Maria… If you hear this — know: I miss you. Every day. I understood everything. Forgive me.”
He didn’t know if she would hear. But somewhere deep down hoped. That in some apartment, by a kitchen radio, a hand with a spoon would freeze, and eyes would fill with tears.
For the first time in years, he allowed himself to cry. Not from pain — from the realization of how much he had lost. And perhaps, irreversibly.
It was late spring. Andrey went out to the park — not out of habit, but as if something was calling him there. He slowly walked along the alleys, looking at passersby’s faces — as he had been doing more and more lately. He felt that any moment someone would turn, smile, and say: “You still remember.”
Suddenly a small boy of about four bumped into him. Red-haired, jacket unbuttoned, with a determined look. He jumped up, shook himself, and looked straight at him:
“Dad?”
Andrey froze. He couldn’t utter a word. Everything inside tightened, breathing faltered. The boy stepped closer, took his hand and repeated:
“Dad, don’t you recognize me?”
A woman came out from behind him. She smiled embarrassedly, reached for the child:
“Matvey, that’s not your dad. Come on, don’t bother the man…”
But the boy broke free:
“That’s my dad! Mom said he would find us!”
Andrey stood, unable to move. He didn’t know how to breathe, didn’t know whether to believe his eyes. But in the boy’s features he recognized himself — in the expression of the eyes, the shape of the lips, the stubborn chin.
The woman took the boy away, throwing Andrey a worried glance:
“Sorry… He often says that… Imagines things,” she muttered and quickly left.
Andrey remained standing in the park, his heart pounding wildly.
He could not be mistaken. This was his son.
A week passed, but the scene in the park would not leave his mind. He searched social media, looked for traces — unsuccessfully. But the certainty that the boy hadn’t lied only grew stronger. And one day fate intervened again.
Late at night, leaving the office, Andrey turned into a pharmacy. On the way back, in an alley, a scream rang out. He didn’t have time to react — a sharp, strong blow to the temple. A robbery. A broken phone, torn jacket, ambulance. The emergency room smelled of medicine, fluorescent lamps hummed.
He sat on the couch, applying ice to his face, when the door opened. A woman in a white coat entered, flipping through a medical chart. Didn’t raise her eyes immediately. Stopped.
“Andrey?”
He looked up. It was Maria.
She turned pale but approached. Silently treated the wound, carefully put on a bandage — as gently as she once smoothed his shirts. Her face remained calm, but in her eyes shimmered something deep, almost painful.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked.
“Living,” he replied bitterly. “And you?”
Maria didn’t answer immediately. Sat down on a chair, rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her gaze was tired, grown-up — as if she had lived more in these years than in a lifetime.
Andrey wanted to ask so much — about everything unfinished, unsaid. But his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Only one thought spun in his head: she was near… but still somewhere far away.
Maria was already beginning to withdraw, becoming a doctor again, a professional who no longer belonged to him. She was building a wall between them, like before. Only now Andrey knew: they were no longer strangers.
The next day he couldn’t stand it. Came back to the emergency room without reason — just to see her again. She wasn’t there. He left a short note:
“I didn’t know. Talk to me.”
No number, no address. Only a name. And a request.
Two days dragged unbearably slowly. Then a call came. An unfamiliar female voice trembled:
“This is Maria… Sorry for not calling sooner. We… Matvey fell, split his lip. Some blood. I… don’t know why I’m calling. He just said: ‘Call Dad.’”
Andrey left immediately.
He arrived at the old house on the city outskirts. Wooden stairs, peeling paint on the walls. Maria opened the door — tired, in a simple T-shirt, hair tied hastily. A towel with iodine stains on her shoulder. Somewhere deep in the apartment a child’s voice was heard.
“He’s in the room. I already treated the wound, but…” she hesitated. “He was waiting for you.”
Andrey entered. In the dim light of the nursery, Matvey sat on the bed. With a bandaged chin, a book in his hands. He looked up, and in his eyes was such recognition, as if they had known each other all their lives.
“Dad…”
Andrey knelt down. Carefully took his hand. It was warm.
“You knew?” he whispered, turning to Maria.
“No. Not right away. I only found out after I left. By then, it was too late. I was afraid. Ashamed. Angry. And then he grew up, and I told him you would come one day. He believed.”
“I ordered a song on the radio…”
Maria nodded. Her lips trembled slightly.
“I heard it. We both cried. And then he said, ‘That was Dad. I know for sure.’”
They stood side by side. There was no more lies, fear, or unspoken words. Only a son. And truth.
A week later, the three of them approached Andrey’s apartment door. Everything was real: the creak of the lock, the smell of old walls, the hum of the fridge. Maria held Matvey’s hand. He barely contained his excitement — for him it was a true moment of adventure.
Andrey opened the door. The apartment greeted them with silence. He stepped inside, looked around — and for the first time saw how living warmth entered these walls. Maria took off her coat, put the bag by the entrance. The boy ran from room to room, looked everywhere, and exclaimed joyfully:
“Mom, there’s ice cream here!”
They laughed. Together for the first time. Not because they had to be polite or hide the pain — simply because they were together. Here and now.
Maria walked through the kitchen, ran her fingers over the countertop. Everything was in place — but everything had changed. Andrey came up behind her, gently touched her shoulder. She did not pull away.
“Think it will work?” she asked quietly.
“If you stay — it will work.”
She turned to him. At that moment, Matvey ran into the kitchen, dragging a pillow and blanket:
“I’m going to sleep here to hear Dad snore!”
Laughter again. Andrey knelt, hugged his son — the very one he hadn’t held as a child but now knew: he would never let go.
Maria sat nearby. Their hands touched — and stayed together. Without obligations, without vows. Just — together. In silence, free from loneliness.
Andrey closed his eyes. Breathed in the air. Felt: it had happened.
That was happiness.
“I didn’t deserve it. But they gave it to me. Now I live not because I can — but because those who once didn’t leave me are near. Thank you…”
