The scrape of a key in the lock sounded at the exact moment I finished arranging the vases with the chrysanthemums I’d just bought. Autumn flowers filled the apartment with a special scent—sharp, slightly bitter, the kind that brings back memories of walks through the park with fallen leaves rustling underfoot.
I wasn’t expecting visitors. More than that, this sound—the sound of the front door opening—should have disappeared from my life a month ago, when Andrey packed his things and moved out. We separated quietly, without shouting matches or broken dishes, like civilized people. Eight years of marriage, no children, different views on life, and a gradually widening distance—such was the formula for our divorce. All very logical, though still sad.
I froze with a vase in my hands, listening to the noises in the hallway. The rustle of clothing, a muted female laugh, Andrey’s deep mumbling. So he wasn’t alone. And judging by the tone, his companion wasn’t some random acquaintance.
I set the vase on the side table and straightened up. Strangely, instead of the jealousy or hurt I would have expected, I felt only mild curiosity and a pinch of irritation—why had he come, and why not alone? A month after he took his things, leaving his keys on the dresser with a short note: “Sorry for everything. I was wrong.”
Andrey appeared in the living room so suddenly it was as if he’d materialized out of thin air. Behind him stood a young woman—about thirty—smiling a little shyly, with a fashionable haircut and a light-blue dress that emphasized her slim figure.
“Vika?” He clearly hadn’t expected to find me at home. “You’re here…”
“Where else would I be?” I raised an eyebrow in surprise. “In my own apartment, after work, on a Friday evening.”
Andrey looked thrown. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture I knew well from our years together. He always did that when he was nervous or stuck in an awkward situation.
“I thought you were at your parents’. You always go there on Fridays.”
“Not this one.” I shrugged. “Mom and Dad went to the dacha to close up for the season.”
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. The girl’s gaze darted between me and Andrey, clearly not understanding what was happening.
“Andrey, introduce us,” she finally said, nudging him lightly with her elbow.
“Yes—of course.” He cleared his throat. “Vika, this is Marina. Marina—Victoria, my… my wife.”
At first I didn’t process what he’d said. Then it hit me—he had introduced me as Marina. And he’d called his companion… his wife?
“I think you’ve got something mixed up,” I couldn’t hold back a smirk. “I’m Victoria. And as for ‘wife’—now that’s interesting.”
Andrey went pale. His companion frowned, confused.
“What do you mean—you’re Victoria?” she turned to Andrey. “You told me your ex’s name was Marina, and that you divorced a year ago!”
“This is my premarital apartment, sweetheart!” I said with a cool smile when my husband brought his new fling. “And Andrey and I are still married. Technically, at least. Though the divorce petition has already been filed.”
The girl’s face twisted. She stepped away from Andrey as if he’d suddenly turned into something disgusting.
“You lied to me? All this time?” Her voice shook with outrage. “We’ve known each other for six months, and you never once…”
“Marina, it’s not like that,” Andrey tried to take her hand, but she yanked it away. “I can explain—”
“Explain what?” Now she was practically shouting. “That you brought me to your real wife’s apartment? That everything you told me about your past was a lie?”
I watched the scene with a strange detachment, like I was watching a film with unfamiliar actors. Marina—so that really was her name—looked genuinely upset and betrayed. Well, I understood her. Andrey had always been a master at inventing his own version of reality.
“You know,” I said to her, “maybe we should talk. The three of us. Like adults.”
“What’s there to talk about?” she sniffled, holding back tears. “It’s all clear.”
“Not entirely.” I nodded toward the kitchen. “I have a bottle of decent wine. And I think it’ll be useful for both of us to know the truth. The whole truth.”
Marina hesitated. Then, throwing Andrey a look that could have annihilated him, she nodded.
“Fine. But only for the truth.”
We sat at the kitchen table, each of us with a glass of red wine. Andrey perched on a stool, clearly uncomfortable between two women he’d so carelessly pitted against each other.
“So,” I took a sip, “let’s be honest. What exactly did Andrey tell you about his… supposedly ex-wife?”
Marina nervously turned her glass in her hands.
“That you were married for five years and divorced a year ago. That she’s a music teacher at a school, and you split up because she didn’t want kids and preferred her career.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Interesting. And now the truth: we’ve been married eight years. We’re not divorced, though we’ve been living separately for the past month. I’m a lawyer, not a teacher. And the ‘kids’ thing’—it was his idea to wait until he ‘made a career.’”
Marina stared at Andrey, who sat with his eyes down like a guilty teenager.
“Why did you lie?” she asked quietly. “And what else have you lied about?”
Andrey exhaled.
“I… got tangled up. When we met, I was still married, but Vika and I practically weren’t living together anymore. I didn’t want to scare you off. And then… then it was already too late to tell the truth.”
“It’s never too late to tell the truth,” I said. “Though in your case, Andrey, it’s always been a problem.”
“What do you mean?” Marina turned to me.
“That lying is his habit,” I took another sip of wine. “Small, harmless lies that slowly destroy a relationship. ‘I didn’t smoke’—when he reeks of cigarettes. ‘I was at a business meeting’—when he was actually playing poker with friends. ‘Of course I did it’—when he hasn’t even started.”
Andrey jerked his head up.
“That’s not fair, Vika. You’re making me out to be some kind of pathological liar.”
“Aren’t you?” I shrugged. “Look where we are right now. You brought your new… girlfriend into the apartment where your legal wife still lives. And you apparently fed her a whole load of nonsense.”
“You told me it was your apartment,” Marina said softly. “That you bought it after the divorce.”
“That’s his favorite trick,” bitterness crept into my voice. “Claiming other people’s achievements. This apartment was my grandmother’s, long before our wedding. I even insisted on a prenup to protect the inheritance. Smart, right?”
Marina drained her wine in one gulp and poured herself more.
“So what else did you lie to me about, Andrey?” Her voice sounded tired now. “That you have your own business? That you make a hundred thousand a month?”
“He really does have his own business,” I cut in. “A small logistics company. But as for the income—better not ask. Things haven’t been going great this past year.”
Andrey sprang to his feet.
“Enough! You’re talking about me like I’m some object, not a person! Yes, I messed up. Yes, I lied. But I did it because—”
“Because it’s easier,” I finished for him. “It’s always easier to create a pretty illusion than admit an ugly reality.”
He sank back onto the stool, suddenly deflating like a punctured balloon.
“I loved you, Vika. I really did.”
“I know.” I nodded. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You always needed something more. Someone more.”
Marina set her glass down so hard wine sloshed over the rim.
“I’m leaving,” she said decisively. “And I never want to see you again, Andrey. Never.”
She turned to me.
“Thank you for the wine and… for the truth. You deserve better.”
With that, she stood and headed for the door. Andrey and I heard the front door slam.
We were left alone at the kitchen table, not looking at each other. The wine in the glasses, unfinished, darkened like dried blood.
“Why did you come?” I asked at last. “And why did you bring her?”
Andrey looked up at me.
“I wanted to pick up my winter clothes. I thought you wouldn’t be home. And Marina… she wanted to see where I live. I couldn’t tell her I’m actually renting a room from a friend.”
“So you decided to show her my apartment? Pass it off as yours?”
“Our apartment,” he corrected. “We lived here eight years. And I thought… just for a couple of hours, while you were out…”
“God, Andrey,” I shook my head. “You never change. Same tricks, dodging, little lies that turn into big problems.”
He stayed silent, and in that silence I saw his admission that I was right.
“Do you really love her?” I asked after a pause.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Maybe. She’s… different. Not as smart as you, but warmer, I guess.”
“And that’s why you told her I’m some bitter music teacher who chose her career over family?” I couldn’t hide the sarcasm.
“I just…” he faltered. “I just wanted to start with a clean slate. Without the baggage.”
“But the past always catches up, Andrey,” I finished my wine and set down the glass. “Like today.”
He nodded, accepting it.
“So what now?” he asked after a long pause.
“Now you take your winter things,” I stood up. “And you never show up here again with your keys. I’m changing the locks tomorrow.”
“And our divorce?”
“It’s going as planned. Court in three weeks. Like we agreed—no mutual claims.”
Andrey stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as if he wanted to say something but didn’t dare.
“What?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Are you… okay, Vika?” His voice held a sincere concern I hadn’t heard in a long time. “After we split up.”
The question caught me off guard.
“Yes,” I nodded after a pause. “Surprisingly okay. Like… like I finally took off a heavy backpack I’d been dragging for too long.”
He smiled sadly.
“Was I the heavy backpack?”
“Not you,” I shook my head. “Our relationship. What it became. An endless cat-and-mouse game where I tried to catch you lying and you wriggled out of it. It’s exhausting, you know.”
“I know,” he lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Vika. For everything.”
I looked at him—the man I’d spent eight years with, shared a bed with, made plans with. He stood there lost and pitiful, and I felt nothing but fatigue and a faint sadness for what could have been, but never was.
“I forgive you,” I said at last. “But it doesn’t change anything. Our time is up, Andrey.”
He nodded, accepting it as a fact.
“Can I at least call you sometimes?” he asked. “Just to see how you are.”
“Why?” I looked at him in surprise. “We have no kids, no business, no reason to stay in touch.”
“Just…” he hesitated. “I’m used to you being in my life. Eight years, after all.”
“And I’m getting used to you not being in it,” I answered gently but firmly. “And I like it, Andrey. For the first time in a long time, I feel calm. Don’t ruin it.”
He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. Then he nodded, accepting my decision.
“Alright. I’ll take my things and go.”
He went to the bedroom, where some of his winter jackets and sweaters were still in the closet. I heard him open the doors, pull things out, rustle bags. Ten minutes later he came out with a large duffel in his hand.
“That’s it,” he paused in the doorway. “Goodbye, Vika.”
“Goodbye, Andrey,” I stood by the window, looking out at the autumn city spread below. “Good luck. Truly.”
When the door closed behind him, I stood still for a long time, breathing in the scent of chrysanthemums and processing what had happened. Strangely, instead of emptiness or bitterness, I felt light. As if the last thread tying me to the past had finally snapped—and I was truly free.
I walked over to the vase of flowers and straightened a drooping stem. Life went on. My life, in my apartment, without lies and manipulation. And in that moment I understood I really was okay. More than okay. I was on my way to something new, and the feeling was worth every tear and disappointment of the past.
The phone rang. My friend’s name lit up the screen—the one who’d been trying for a week to drag me to a blind dinner with some colleague of hers.
“Hi, Lena,” I answered with a smile. “You know, about that dinner on Saturday… I think I’ll say yes.”
Life went on. And maybe the best part of it was still ahead
