Rita stared at her phone screen, where a message from a colleague glowed: “I saw some girl in Artyom’s office today. They were sitting very close, laughing.” The phone suddenly felt unbearably heavy in her hands.
Ten years. Ten years of life together flashed before her eyes like frames of an old film reel. Rita set the phone down and went to the kitchen. Her hands moved automatically toward the kettle—the habit of brewing tea in moments of anxiety had stuck with her since her student years.
Artyom met Rita when he was just starting out at an IT company. Rita was already a lead specialist at an advertising agency. She immediately saw his potential and supported all his beginnings. When Artyom lost his job twice due to layoffs, it was Rita who kept their family budget afloat.
“Ritulya, you understand this is temporary,” Artyom would say then, eyes lowered in guilt. “I’ll definitely find something worthwhile.”
“Of course you will,” Rita would hug her husband, feeling the tension in his shoulders. “You’ll make it.”
From the very start, Artyom’s mother, Yelena Petrovna, was against their marriage. At family gatherings, his mother-in-law never missed a chance to jab at Rita:
“Artyomushka, now Slava’s wife—she’s a real keeper of the home. Stays at home, cooks borscht, not running around offices,” Yelena Petrovna would ostentatiously straighten the tablecloth. “And your Rita is all about building her career. Is that right?”
Rita learned to let such remarks pass by. In the end, it wasn’t up to his mother to decide how she and Artyom should live. But over the past six months something intangible had changed. Artyom seemed to have grown distant, staying late at work more and more often.
“It’s a difficult project, I have to finish it,” he would toss over his shoulder, coming home after midnight.
Rita noticed a new shirt, expensive cologne, carefully styled hair. Artyom had never paid much attention to his looks before, preferring simple T-shirts and jeans.
“You’ve changed,” Rita remarked once over dinner.
“In what sense?” Artyom twitched his shoulder, not lifting his eyes from his plate.
“You’ve become different. Detached.”
“Nonsense. It’s just a lot of work.”
It was as if Yelena Petrovna sensed something was wrong—she started dropping by more often. She kept bringing up how important it was for a man to feel like the head of the family.
“See, Rita, you do everything yourself. What’s left for a man?” his mother would shake her head. “Artyomushka needs care, attention. And you’re forever away at work.”
Rita wanted to retort that it was precisely her job that had allowed them to buy their apartment and car, to go on vacation. That while Artyom was finding himself, she had kept their budget afloat. But she stayed silent—she didn’t want another scene.
A new employee had joined Artyom’s company two months earlier. Nastya, twenty-five, a marketing specialist. Rita had seen her briefly at the company party—a fragile blonde with a doll-like face.
“Can you imagine how clueless she is,” Artyom had said then. “She doesn’t know the simplest things, I have to explain everything.”
Now those words sounded different. Rita remembered how at that same party Nastya had looked at Artyom—with admiration, like at a mentor and guru. She praised his projects, laughed at his jokes. And he seemed to straighten his shoulders, looking ten years younger.
A phone call yanked Rita out of her thoughts. Yelena Petrovna.
“Ritochka, are you home? I’ll drop by for a minute, I need to talk.”
Rita glanced at the clock—half past eleven. What talk at this hour? But her mother-in-law was already coming down the stairs—she lived one floor up.
Yelena Petrovna burst into the apartment without even taking off her shoes:
“I know everything!” She plopped onto a chair. “Lyudmila Vasilievna told me. Her niece works at the same company.”
“What do you know?” Rita sat down opposite her, feeling her fingers start to tremble.
“About this Nastya. A good girl, by the way. Modest, kind. And she cooks wonderfully—Artyomushka said she brings him lunch at work.”
Rita rose slowly from her chair. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, stuffy.
“So she brings him lunch,” Rita opened the window. Fresh air poured into the room. “And since when?”
“For about two months now, I suppose,” Yelena Petrovna adjusted her hair. “You’re always busy, you don’t have time to take care of your husband. A man needs attention, care.”
Rita silently took out her phone and opened Artyom’s messages. There it was—a short “I’ll be late tonight.” And another, and another… Two months of excuses.
“You know what, Yelena Petrovna,” Rita set the phone on the table, “let’s wait for Artyom and talk all together.”
“What is there to talk about? You’re the one to blame. Your career is always in first place. And now you’re surprised he found someone who appreciates him.”
Her mother-in-law kept saying something, but Rita had stopped listening. Her work phone buzzed in her bag. A new message. Rita opened it automatically—and froze. Artyom had accidentally sent her a text meant for Nastya.
“They don’t understand me at home. Rita is always pressing me with her success. With you it’s different—easy and simple. Maybe we can meet today?”
An anxious follow-up appeared: “Sorry, wrong chat.”
“Good thing he made a mistake,” Rita turned the phone so her mother-in-law could see the screen. “Now we don’t have to wait for him to come back.”
Yelena Petrovna skimmed the message:
“And he’s right! You’ve nagged him to death with your independence.”
The front door slammed—Artyom had come home. He froze on the kitchen threshold, his gaze darting from his mother to his wife.
“What’s going on?”
“You tell me,” Rita held out the phone. “About Nastya, for instance. About the lunches. About how you’re not understood at home.”
Artyom blanched, but quickly pulled himself together:
“What is there to tell? Yes, Nastya and I are seeing each other. She’s young, fun, she doesn’t nag me. With her I feel like a man, not a perpetually guilty loser.”
“Artyomushka, that’s right!” Yelena Petrovna jumped up, clapping her hands. “I always said Rita wasn’t right for you.”
Rita looked at the two of them and didn’t recognize the man she had lived with for ten years. Where was the Artyom who rejoiced in her successes? Who said he was proud of his smart wife?
“You know what?” Rita opened the closet and pulled out a suitcase. “Pack your things. If you want an easy life—go for it. Just don’t come back later when your Nastya finds someone richer.”
“How dare you!” flared Yelena Petrovna. “Nastya isn’t like that!”
“Of course she isn’t,” Rita began methodically folding her husband’s things into the suitcase. “She’s just a young girl who likes expensive gifts and restaurants. I wonder if she knows that half your salary goes toward the car loan? Or that the apartment is in my name?”
Artyom flinched:
“What does that have to do with anything? You’re starting on money again?”
“No, I’m finishing. Here are your things, there’s the door. You can pick up the divorce papers yourself at the registry office.”
Artyom took the suitcase but hesitated at the threshold:
“Maybe we should talk it through? You know, you can’t just cross out ten years like that…”
“You already crossed them out,” Rita leaned wearily against the wall. “Go. Nastya’s waiting.”
His mother tugged him by the sleeve:
“Come on, son. You can stay with me for now, and things with Nastya will sort themselves out.”
When the door closed behind them, Rita slowly slid down to the floor. Ten years. Ten years of love, support, shared plans—shattered by her husband’s desire to feel important next to a young girl.
The following weeks passed in a haze. Rita threw herself into work, took on a new project she’d been postponing. In the evenings she went to the gym—physical fatigue helped her not to think. Friends invited her to bars, introduced her to people, but Rita just waved them off.
Then the calls began. Artyom wrote almost every day. At first he demanded they split property, threatened court. Then his tone changed—he asked for forgiveness, reminisced about the past. Rita didn’t respond.
“You know what I’ve realized?” Rita said to a friend over coffee. “I’m not angry at Nastya. She’s young, she wants a pretty life. What hurts is different—Artyom spent ten years pretending he was proud of me, but in reality he was suffering because of my success.”
“You’re strong,” her friend squeezed her hand. “You’ll get through this.”
“I already have.”
A month later, Rita ran into Nastya by chance at a shopping mall. The young lover of her ex-husband looked displeased:
“He’s broke!” Nastya complained unabashedly. “Average salary, everything goes to loans. And what, am I supposed to sit in cheap cafés? I thought he was really a cool specialist, and he’s…” Nastya flicked her hand dismissively.
Rita turned silently and walked away. A week later she learned that Nastya had started dating their department director.
Yelena Petrovna stopped by a few times—to pick up the rest of her son’s things. On the last visit she couldn’t hold it in:
“You shouldn’t have done that to him. He loves you, he just got confused.”
“Loves?” Rita laughed. “You know, Yelena Petrovna, I spent ten years trying to be a good wife. I supported him, believed in him. And all that time you were drilling into your son that he was the victim of a successful wife. Now you can reap the harvest.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that your son is now sleeping on your couch, drinking in the evenings, and can’t believe that a twenty-five-year-old girl dumped him for the first wealthier suitor.”
Yelena Petrovna pressed her lips together but said nothing. Deep down she understood—Rita was right. Artyom had turned into a shadow of his former self. Every evening he came back drunk, complained about life, and asked the portrait of his ex-wife for forgiveness.
Three months passed. Rita renovated the apartment as she’d long dreamed—light walls, new furniture, no reminders of her past life. At work she was promoted to department head. Life was getting back on track, until one evening the doorbell rang.
Artyom stood on the threshold—sober, in a new suit, holding a bouquet of Rita’s favorite peonies.
“I’ve understood everything,” his voice trembled. “May I come in? Can we talk?”
Rita silently opened the door. Artyom paused on the threshold—the apartment had changed beyond recognition.
“Have a seat,” Rita pointed to an armchair. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Nothing for me,” Artyom sank into the chair, twisting the bouquet in his hands. “I just want to say… You were right. Right about everything. I’m an idiot who fell for a pretty picture. Nastya… she just used me. And I betrayed you, our family, everything we built over ten years.”
The doorbell rang again. On the threshold stood Yelena Petrovna:
“Artyomushka, I knew I’d find you here!” She strode into the apartment. “Ritochka, that’s enough already. My son sees the light, he repents. You lived together so many years!”
Rita looked at the uninvited guests and felt irritation rising inside her. Did they really think you could just turn everything back like that?
“Tell me honestly, Yelena Petrovna, do you really believe it’s enough to show up with flowers and apologies?” Rita walked to the window. “After everything you said about me? After all those years you spent turning your son against me?”
“I wanted what was best for him!” his mother flared. “I just wanted him to be happy.”
“No, Mom,” Artyom suddenly stood up. “You didn’t want what was best. You just couldn’t accept that I was living my own life. You kept trying to prove that your way was the only right one.”
Yelena Petrovna gasped and pressed a hand to her chest:
“How can you say that? I’m your mother! All my life I…”
“All your life you tried to make me into a puppet,” Artyom cut her off. “And I let you. And in the end I lost what was most precious.”
Rita watched the scene and thought how strange life was. Three months ago she had been ready to die from pain and resentment. And now she looked at her ex-husband and mother-in-law and felt nothing but a light sadness.
“You know what,” Rita turned to them. “I’m grateful to you. Truly. You taught me an important lesson—never let others decide how you should live.”
“Rita, please,” Artyom took a step toward her. “Give us a chance. I’ll make it right.”
“Too late, Artyom. I’m no longer the woman you betrayed. And you know what? I like being myself—without looking over my shoulder at anyone’s opinion.”
Yelena Petrovna sniffled:
“So you’re going to stay alone? Selfish!”
“And now you’re both leaving,” Rita threw the door open. “Both of you. And don’t come back.”
When the door closed behind her former relatives, Rita walked over to the mirror. From the reflection a confident woman looked back at her, with a straight back and a calm gaze. Three months ago she thought her life was over. It turned out—it was just beginning.
Her phone chimed—a message from a colleague: “There’s an interesting project in Europe. They need a manager. Would you consider it?”
Rita smiled. Before, she would have been afraid of such changes. But now… Now she knew: there is nothing scarier than losing yourself trying to please others.
A week later Rita ran into Artyom at the supermarket. Her ex-husband looked lost.
“How are you?” he asked, eyeing her new haircut and business suit.
“Wonderful,” Rita smiled sincerely. “I’m finally living my own life.”
Artyom nodded:
“I’m happy for you. Really happy. And… forgive me. For everything.”
“Already have,” Rita turned her cart. “Goodbye, Artyom.”
That evening she sat on the balcony watching the sunset. White wine sparkled in her glass, and a plane ticket to Paris lay on the table—her new project began in a month. The city hummed below, a whole life awaited ahead, and for the first time in a long while, Rita felt truly free.
