For a long time I lied to myself. I acted as if life were still ticking along in its usual groove—same routines, nothing changing, just a bad dream I’d eventually wake from. I refused to accept that Sergey had really betrayed me. And not some careless fling, either—he was involved. With her. The woman who conveniently became his assistant. They saw each other every single day.
The signs were all there: coming home late, an unfamiliar perfume clinging to his shirt, hushed calls behind a closed door, a calendar suddenly crowded with “business trips.” I kept telling myself it was my anxiety talking, that everything had a logical explanation if I’d just stop dramatizing.
One evening I broke. I asked outright:
“Tell me—are you seeing her?”
He didn’t bother to deny it. He just looked at me coolly and said:
“You already know. Good that we’re talking about this. I want a divorce.”
That was it. One clean blow. No apology, no flicker of warmth—just the finality of “that’s all.”
Then came the chorus of comfort.
“He’s not worth you, Olga,” said Marina, my best friend. “Erase him like a bad dream. Honestly, it’s a blessing. He’d have wrecked your life.”
“I knew from day one he was a piece of work,” my mother snapped. “Let him go to hell. You’ll meet a real man.”
“That’s life, dear,” sighed my mother-in-law when I called to tell her. “No children, you’re young, beautiful—you’ve got everything ahead.”
Kind words, all of them, but they never reached me. Because somewhere inside I still hoped. I hoped Sergey would come to his senses, admit he’d made a mistake, and come back. Naïve? Maybe. But I was willing to cling to even a thread.
I called him again and again, half-dreaming he’d change his mind. He never picked up. He just vanished—as if the moment he shut the door he erased me from his life.
To keep from drowning in my thoughts, I started spending time with Marina and her brother, Kirill. We’d known each other forever, though we’d always hovered in that friendly, not-quite-close orbit. As teenagers I’d harbored a quiet crush I told no one about—least of all Marina. He was her brother, after all.
He’d just moved back to our town after his own divorce, a little adrift, a little sad. Strangely, being around him made me feel… alive. Kirill didn’t pity me, didn’t deal in clichés about “deserving better,” didn’t interrogate my feelings. He simply showed up. We walked in the evenings, watched movies, sat on a park bench sharing ice cream from the corner shop. Next to him, the noise in my head dimmed. Thoughts of Sergey thinned and drifted away.
So when the paperwork finally stamped our divorce into fact, I said yes to Kirill. I hadn’t planned it that way. Marina, of all people, was the most delighted.
“Finally!” she squealed, squeezing me. “I always knew this would happen. I’m thrilled.”
“You… knew?”
“Of course,” she grinned. “Who else could be perfect for my brother if not you? I told you—your divorce is a gift. The best thing that could’ve happened.”
A few months earlier I might have cried, or taken offense. Now I understood. With Kirill, I felt different—wanted, cherished, seen. He was nothing like Sergey: gentle, attentive, thoughtful. He even spoiled me, and I’d never known that kind of care before.
I hadn’t looked back in a long while when my phone lit up with a name I no longer expected to see. Sergey.
“It’s Sergey,” I murmured, staring at the screen. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Kirill nodded. “Pick up. Hear him out.”
I gathered myself and answered.
“Olga?” His voice was clipped, almost businesslike. “We need to meet. Urgently.”
“What about?” I asked, the confusion already rising.
“Not on the phone,” he cut in. “Can you come to the park by your place tomorrow? By the lake. You pick the time.”
Still unsettled, I agreed. He confirmed and hung up.
“Well?” I asked Kirill. “Any idea what that was?”
“No,” he said. “But if you want, I can be close by.”
“No,” I said, steady now. “I need to finish this chapter myself. Just me.”
At the exact time I’d chosen, I stood by the small lake in the park. I’d come alone, as planned. He wasn’t there yet, and doubt began to nibble at me. Would he show? We had no ties left. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he wanted me back.
Then I spotted him—striding quickly, as if pressed for time. He barely greeted me before launching in:
“Thanks for coming. We need to talk… about the ring.”
“What ring?” I blinked.
“Your wedding ring,” he said. “You still have it, right? I want it back.”
My brows rose on their own.
“You want me to hand over the ring? Why?”
He shrugged, a faint crease at his brow. “I’m getting married. Karina and I need wedding bands. I paid for them, so I have the right to take mine back. Especially yours. It’s only fair.”
For a breath I stood frozen. Here was the man I’d once loved, asking for a gift from years ago so he could save money on his new wedding. The absurdity hit me so hard I burst out laughing. I laughed until tears ran—tears not of grief, but of sheer disbelief at the ridiculousness of it all.
Wiping my face, I met his eyes. “You’re in luck—I didn’t toss it. I even carry it with me.”
I fished it out—yes, I’d kept it, tucked away with those old phantom memories.
“Here,” I said lightly. “If you need it that badly—take it. I won’t stand in the way of your happiness.”
Then, in one clean motion, I flicked my wrist and sent the ring arcing into the lake. It vanished with a neat plunge, leaving only widening ripples.
I didn’t wait to see his face. No shouting, no explanations—I no longer cared. Let him swear, let him blame fate. I turned and walked away, leaving him where he was—alone, which, perhaps, is where he belonged.
Later, telling Kirill the whole story, we laughed until our sides ached.
“You’re incredible,” he said, smiling. “Sometimes the best thing is to let go—of things and the people tied to them.”
We’re not rushing a wedding. Though I can feel it—Kirill is thinking about it. Maybe he’ll propose soon. Why not? We’ve both done our time with heartbreak and endings. Now we’ve earned the right to something true. My parents—my mother especially—are over the moon. She’s already daydreaming about grandchildren.
And me? I’m content. Happy, cliché or not. I’m not afraid to say it out loud: I found someone who genuinely loves me.
