The message came on a Thursday evening while I was chopping salad for dinner. My husband’s phone was lying on the table, screen up—he’d forgotten it in the kitchen again, as usual, when he went to take a shower. I wasn’t even planning to look. But the notification practically pulled my eyes to it.
“Igoryok, I’m so looking forward to our celebration! I already bought a dress—you promised it would be an unforgettable evening.”
My hand froze with the knife above the cutting board. Igoryok. My husband’s name is Igor, and only I used to call him Igoryok in the first years of our marriage—about twenty-five years ago. And now someone else was calling him Igoryok.
I slowly put the knife down and wiped my hands on my apron. The water was running in the bathroom. I had about two minutes. My fingers were trembling as I picked up the phone. I knew the passcode—our wedding date. The irony.
The chat with Kristina opened easily. I scrolled up, and every message hit harder than a slap.
“Baby, I want you so much today.”
“Thanks for the flowers—you’re the most attentive.”
“I can’t wait for the 31st. Did you book the table at ‘Panorama’?”
“Panorama.” The most expensive restaurant in town—the same one he promised to take me to for our twenty-fifth anniversary, but never did. But for Kristina? Sure.
The water in the bathroom shut off. I quickly put the phone back where it had been and returned to the salad. My hands moved automatically—slice, mix, salt. Inside, everything turned cold and tightened into a hard knot.
“Marin, why are you so pale?” Igor asked as he came out of the bathroom in his robe, hair still damp. “Are you feeling sick?”
“I’m fine,” I replied without looking up. “Just tired.”
He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, kissed my neck. I caught the scent of his shower gel—an expensive one he’d bought recently. Probably for her.
“Listen, I wanted to talk to you,” he began, and I knew a lie was coming. “Work called. I have to go on a business trip for a few days. Right over the New Year holidays—can you believe it?”
I turned to him. Looked him in the eyes—brown, familiar, the same eyes I fell in love with thirty years ago.
“On New Year’s?” I pretended to be surprised. “But we always celebrate together…”
“I know, sunshine.” He spread his hands in a guilty gesture. “But it’s an important project. They’re promising a good bonus. You understand, right?”
I understand. I understand that you’re lying to my face. That thirty years together, our daughter, our grandkids—none of it matters compared to your Kristina and her new dress.
“Of course,” I nodded. “Work is work. When do you leave?”
“Morning of the 31st. I’ll be back on the 3rd.”
“Alright. Then I’ll spend the holiday alone.”
He hugged me again, pulling me close.
“I’m sorry, Marishka. I promise I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go somewhere, celebrate later—just the two of us.”
Later. Someday. Like all those times he promised before, and we never went anywhere.
That night I didn’t sleep. I lay next to him, listening to his steady breathing and thinking. I could have made a scene. Thrown everything I knew in his face. But what would it change? He’d deny it, accuse me of jealousy, of spying. Or maybe he’d admit it. And then what? Divorce at fifty-seven? Splitting the apartment, swallowing humiliation in front of our daughter and grandkids?
No. I chose a different path.
In the morning I called our daughter, Nastya.
“Hi, Mom! How are you?” Her voice was sleepy.
“Nastyusha, sweetheart… would you mind if I come to you for New Year’s?”
“To us? Mom, seriously?” Surprise and joy woke up in her tone. “Of course we wouldn’t mind! We’d be so happy! What happened?”
“Your dad is going on a work trip. I don’t want to sit alone. I figure I’ll see the kids, spend time with you.”
“Mom, that’s wonderful! Come for sure! Do you need a ticket? I’ll buy it!”
“No, baby, I’ll manage. I’ll go the morning of the 31st.”
“Great! I’ll meet you!”
When I hung up, it felt a little lighter inside. Igor had already left for work—lately he’d been leaving earlier and coming home later. Getting ready for the holiday with his mistress, apparently.
I opened my laptop and bought a ticket on the high-speed train to St. Petersburg. Then I logged into online banking and checked our joint account. There was a little over two hundred thousand rubles—his last bonus plus a few months’ savings. A nice sum. Especially for a man about to impress his mistress at an expensive restaurant.
The next days passed in a fog. Igor fussed, packed a suitcase, went out a couple of times “to buy gifts for clients.” He came back pleased, wearing a mysterious smile. I watched him and felt something growing in me—not even anger, but a cold calm. As if I was already gone from this apartment, from this life with a cheating husband—somewhere far away.
“Are you sure you won’t be upset?” he asked two days before he “left.” “That I’m leaving you alone?”
“Igor,” I smiled at him gently, “we’re adults. You work—I understand. It’s fine. Besides, I decided to go see Nastya.”
He froze.
“To Nastya? For New Year’s?”
“Yes. Why?” I said. “She’s invited me for a long time. If you’ll be busy, why not spend time with my daughter and grandkids?”
I saw relief flicker in his eyes. Now he wouldn’t feel guilty—his wife wasn’t alone, his wife was with family, everything was perfect.
“That’s… that’s a good idea,” he nodded. “You’ll have a great time.”
“We will,” I agreed.
The morning of December 31st was frosty and sunny. I got up at six, made coffee, packed a small bag. Igor was still asleep—his “train” was only at noon. No, not a train. He was just planning to leave at noon and pretend he was traveling.
I left a note on the kitchen table: “Gone to Nastya’s. Have a good trip. Marina.”
On the train I watched snowy fields and forests slide past the window. A few messages came from Igor: “Good morning,” “Have a safe trip,” “Text me when you arrive.” All as usual. A caring husband. Only that evening, that caring husband would be sitting in a restaurant with another woman.
Nastya met me at the station with flowers and a huge smile. We hugged, and I felt tears rising. My own daughter—the one person who truly loved me.
“Mom, why are you crying?” she worried.
“Oh, nothing. I just missed you,” I wiped my eyes. “Silly. Let’s go home.”
Nastya had a cozy three-bedroom apartment in a new building. The grandkids—Liza, eight, and Maksim, five—ran at me shouting, “Grandma!” I hugged them, kissed the tops of their heads, and something warm started to return to my chest.
“Mom, rest after the trip,” Nastya said tenderly. “Then you and I can go to the mall. I still need to buy a few gifts—I didn’t have time. Will you come with me?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
We drank tea, I napped a little, and by four in the afternoon we were walking through a huge shopping mall. Everywhere there were sparkling lights, holiday music, people rushing with bags of gifts.
“Look,” Nastya stopped at a kids’ store window. “For Liza I want this doll. And for Maksim— that construction set.”
I nodded, looking at the toys. But I was thinking about Igor. Right now, back in our city, he was probably getting dressed, putting on his best suit, preparing for his “unforgettable evening.” Spraying expensive cologne. Maybe even feeling a little nervous.
“Mom, are you listening?”
“What? Yes, yes, of course.”
“I’m saying this set is kind of expensive. Five thousand. Maybe we should pick something simpler?”
“Get this one,” I said. “He’ll be happy.”
“Mom, but it’s expensive…”
“Nastya,” I took her hand, “take it. I’ll pay.”
“Mom, no! You don’t have to!”
“Sweetheart,” I smiled, “do me a favor. Let me be a generous grandma. Okay?”
She looked unsure, but nodded.
I pulled out the card—the same one linked to our joint account—and paid. Ten thousand rubles. Igor wouldn’t even notice yet.
“Let’s keep going,” I suggested. “Let’s look at something for you, too.”
We wandered from store to store. Nastya tried on dresses; I bought her a set she liked for fifteen thousand. Then we went into a jewelry shop and I saw earrings—delicate, with tiny diamonds.
“Pretty, right?” Nastya asked, catching my glance.
“Very.”
“But too expensive. Twenty-five thousand—can you imagine?”
“Try them on.”
“Mom, why? I’m not buying them anyway.”
“I said, try them on.”
She put the earrings on and looked in the mirror. Her eyes lit up.
“They suit you,” I said. “We’re taking them.”
“Mom!”
“Nastyusha, it makes me happy to give you gifts. Let me, okay?”
It was awkward for her to refuse, and the earrings truly suited her. I took out the card. Twenty-five thousand gone.
Then came a cosmetics shop, where I bought Nastya creams and perfume for another twelve thousand. A pet shop, where we picked a huge cat house for their cat—nine thousand. An electronics store, where I insisted on a new tablet for Nastya—thirty thousand; the old one barely worked.
“Mom, stop,” Nastya grabbed my hand as we came out of yet another store. “What is going on? You’ve already spent over a hundred thousand! This is insane!”
I checked the time. Half past seven. In the restaurant Igor was surely already at the table. Admiring Kristina in her new dress. Ordering champagne. Feeling young and successful.
“Mom, you’re scaring me,” Nastya said anxiously. “Are you okay? Did something happen to Dad?”
I took a deep breath.
“Nastyusha, let’s get coffee. I need to tell you something.”
We sat down at a café in the food court. I ordered cappuccinos and told her everything—slowly, calmly. The message. The chat. The “business trip.” The restaurant, Panorama.
Nastya listened, and her face shifted—from shock to anger, from anger to pain.
“How…” she couldn’t find the words. “How could he? After all these years? Mom, I’m sorry, but he’s… such a bastard.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “And you know what? I don’t want hysterics. I don’t want to destroy my life. But I want him to feel—at least a little—some consequences.”
“And you’re spending his money?”
“Our money,” I corrected. “From the joint account. On my grandkids. On my daughter. What’s wrong with that?”
Nastya suddenly laughed—through tears, but she laughed.
“Mom, you’re a genius. How much is left in the account?”
I checked the balance in the app.
“About ninety thousand. And I want to spend it. Every last ruble.”
We got up and went back into the mall. Now we weren’t shopping—we were on a mission. I bought myself a coat I’d wanted for a long time—thirty-eight thousand. Nastya chose new boots—twenty thousand. We went into a toy store and bought the kids even more—sets, dolls, cars, books. Nastya checked the receipt—twenty-three thousand.
“That leaves nine,” she said, looking at her phone. “Where to now?”
I looked around. My eyes landed on a wine boutique.
“There,” I nodded.
We chose three bottles of good champagne and French wine. Exactly nine thousand two hundred rubles. The balance on the card now showed a pathetic six hundred rubles.
We walked out of the mall, loaded with bags. It was almost nine in the evening.
“Do you feel better?” Nastya asked.
“Much,” I admitted.
My phone rang. Igor. I answered.
“Marina!” His voice was tight. “Do you have the card with you? The one from the joint account?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did you buy something? There are some big charges!”
“I did,” I replied calmly. “Gifts for the kids, a few things for Nastya. Why?”
“How much did you spend?!”
“I didn’t count. What’s the problem, Igor? You’re on a business trip, aren’t you? Or did the restaurant not meet expectations?”
Silence.
“How do you know about the restaurant?”
“What do you think?” I felt something hot rising inside—not anger, more like triumph. “Did you think I was stupid? That I wouldn’t notice? Igoryok?”
Another pause. I could hear him breathing hard.
“Marina, I’ll explain everything, but right now… I have a problem. There’s no money on the card, and I have to pay the bill, and—”
“And your Kristina in her new dress is waiting?” I said. “Too bad, Igor. Really too bad. But you know, I also wanted to celebrate New Year’s beautifully. And I will. With my daughter and grandkids. You can handle your problems yourself. Happy New Year.”
I hung up. My hands were shaking, but inside I felt light.
“Mom,” Nastya said softly, “you just… That was awesome.”
We got home. My son-in-law Denis had already set the table; the kids were bouncing with excitement. We unloaded our purchases, opened one of the bottles.
At eleven, my friend Sveta called to congratulate me. She cackled into the phone when she heard the story.
“Marina, I adore you! He probably fell off his chair! I can just imagine how his little Kristina freaked out!”
Yes, I could imagine. I could picture Igor trying to explain to the waiter that the money would come any second—right now. How he blushed, how he squirmed. How Kristina first didn’t believe it, then got angry, then grabbed her purse and left, snapping something like, “You ruined my whole holiday!”
Good. Let him feel it.
At midnight we stood with glasses of champagne. The Kremlin chimes rang on TV. The kids popped party crackers, Denis hugged Nastya, and I stood there thinking about the thirty years I’d spent with my husband. There were good years. But they were over. Something new was beginning.
“To us,” Nastya said, raising her glass. “To women who don’t let themselves be betrayed without consequences.”
“To us,” I echoed.
Igor didn’t call again that night. But the next morning, January 1st, a text came: “I need to talk to you. Seriously.”
I replied only: “So do I. But not today. Today I’m resting.”
I stayed with Nastya for three days. We walked through snowy St. Petersburg, took the kids to the theater, ate blini at a café on Nevsky. I didn’t think about Igor, about what would happen next, about divorce or forgiveness.
When I returned home, the apartment was empty. On the table was a note: “I’m at Dima’s. I’ll come by tonight. We really need to talk. I.”
That evening he came—older, tired. He sat across from me in the kitchen.
“She dumped me right there in the restaurant,” he said quietly. “Said I was a loser. That I ruined her holiday.”
“I’m very sorry,” I wasn’t being ironic. I really did feel a little sorry.
“Marina, I… I’m an idiot. A complete idiot. I don’t know what came over me. A midlife crisis, maybe. It felt like I was missing out on life, like I needed something new, something bright…”
“And you found Kristina,” I said.
“Yes. And I lost everything else.”
We sat in silence.
“Will you forgive me?” he asked.
I looked at him. This man had been part of my life for so long. We raised a daughter, lived through so much together.
“I don’t know, Igor,” I answered honestly. “I don’t know if I can forgive. And I don’t know if I can forget. I need time to think. About us. About me. About what I want from life now.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “As long as it takes.”
Maybe we would end up together again. Maybe we’d divorce. Maybe we’d find some kind of compromise. I truly didn’t know.
But I knew one thing for sure: I was no longer the obedient wife who silently endures and forgives. I was a woman who could stand up for herself—even in such an unusual way.
And the money… well. It was spent on the right things. On family. On the people who truly mattered. On gifts, joy, and love.
And it was the best New Year’s of my life.
The end.
