The dress had been hanging on the coat hanger for three days already. Every morning I walked past it and looked at it—blue, with tiny flowers, simple but new. I hadn’t bought anything for myself in a long time. Somehow there was never time, and no point either. Where would I go, a retired housewife?
But then my niece invited me to her anniversary. Thirty years old, the girl. I’ve known her since birth—I’m her godmother, after all. And I suddenly wanted… well, just once, to show up not in some washed-out old sweater, but looking nice. So that Tolya would look at me and smile the way he used to.
Used to… That was probably thirty years ago.
On Saturday I got up early, fixed my hair a bit better, and put the dress on. I stood in front of the mirror. Well… it looked fine. Not a girl anymore, of course—sixty-two, after all. But not some monster either. Just an ordinary woman.
Tolya came out of the room, buttoning his shirt. He stopped. Looked at me with that long stare—up and down, like he was evaluating me. And all at once I felt something tighten inside.
“I’m ashamed to be seen with you in public, understand?” he said evenly. He didn’t even raise his voice. Just stated it like a fact.
I stood there rooted to the spot. Opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. What do you even say to that? How does anyone answer something like that?
“I’m going alone,” he added, and went to the entryway.
The door slammed. Silence. And there I was alone in the middle of the room, in my stupid new dress, which suddenly felt like ridiculous rags.
I sat down on the couch. Sat there staring at the wall. I didn’t even cry. It was just empty inside. You know how it is when something very important breaks, and you don’t immediately understand what exactly?
I didn’t go to the anniversary. Later I told my niece I’d come down with something. She was upset, but didn’t show it. Good girl.
Tolya came back late. Silently undressed and went to bed. I lay there with my eyes open until morning. Kept thinking—what is it about me? What’s so repulsive? I’m not hideous. I just got old. Like everyone does. Like he got old too, by the way.
But he—he’s allowed to age. And I, apparently, am not.
Two days later, on Tuesday, I was making dinner. Peeling potatoes when I heard voices in the stairwell. One was Tolya’s. The other was a woman’s—bright, unfamiliar.
The door opened, and they came in. Tolya first, and behind him—her.
Tall. Dyed hair, sure, but nicely done—none of that cheap reddish color a lot of women have. Bright lipstick. A tight leather jacket. Heels. In our building, where the steps are broken.
“Valya, meet her,” Tolya said as if nothing were happening. “This is Inna. We… ran into each other by chance. She lives nearby.”
Inna held out a hand with long nails. I shook it automatically. Her hand was cold, oddly slippery.
“Very nice,” she sang out. “Anatoly has told me so much about you.”
He hadn’t told her anything. You could see it in her eyes—she didn’t see me at all. She looked past me like I was a piece of furniture. An old wardrobe that should’ve been replaced ages ago.
“Tolya says it’s so cozy here,” Inna went on, looking around the kitchen. “So homey.”
Homey meaning shabby—I understood.
They went into the living room. I heard Tolya turn on the TV, heard them laugh at something. Inna loud, with a ringing little trill in her voice. He—pleased with himself, loosened up.
When she left, about an hour and a half later, I asked:
“What was that?”
“Everything’s fine,” Tolya waved it off. “Just an acquaintance. Don’t work yourself up.”
Work myself up. As if I’d imagined him bringing a strange woman into our home. Young. Bright.
After that, life became some blurred sort of existence. Inna started showing up more and more often. Sometimes they’d come back from the store together, sometimes they’d sit on the bench in the yard. Once the neighbor, Klavdiya, even tugged my sleeve:
“Valyusha, can’t you see what’s going on? Everyone’s gossiping. Say something to him!”
Say something. But what? Formally he wasn’t “breaking” anything. An acquaintance, that’s all. Almost a family friend, if you listened to his explanations.
The kids stayed silent. My daughter Sveta called once a week—routine, short. My son Seryozha disappeared completely. When I hinted about Inna, Sveta sighed:
“Mom, what can I do? You’re adults. Figure it out yourselves.”
Figure it out yourselves. Convenient.
I stopped going out into the yard. I stayed home and stared out the window. Watched Tolya and Inna get into his car. Watched her laugh, throwing her head back. Watched him open the door for her—he hadn’t opened a door for me in ten years.
My friend Lidka came by once with pastries. Sat across from me and looked at me for a long time.
“Have you even looked at yourself lately?” she asked sharply. “You’ve turned into a ghost. Pale, hunted. You think he’ll like you better this way?”
“Lid, what does liking have to do with it…” I started, but she cut me off.
“It has everything to do with it! You gave up, Valka. You just up and capitulated. And you need to do the opposite—shake yourself out of it, pull yourself together. If only out of spite, you hear me?”
I didn’t understand. What spite, when there’s nothing inside but emptiness?
But something still stirred.
The next day I went to the store—the first time in two weeks. I walked fast, head down, so I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. And then someone called out:
“Valentina Mikhailovna?”
I turned around. A man was standing there, older now but fit. The face was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Don’t recognize me? It’s Petrovich, from the factory. You worked in accounting.”
Oh right. Petrovich. He’d been a mechanic, always cheerful.
“What happened to you?” he asked, looking straight at my face. “You’ve completely gone out… You used to be sunny. I remember how you supported everyone in the department when they cut our bonuses. Always with a smile.”
Sunny. That was a long time ago.
We stood there and talked a bit. He told me about his life—his wife died a year ago, and now he goes to the pool so he doesn’t fall apart. Says it helps.
“You should find something for yourself too,” he said as we parted. “Life isn’t over.”
I came home and stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. I really had gone out. Hair neglected, gray showing through. Face dull. Back slumped. When did it happen?
The next day I made an appointment with a hairdresser—an old acquaintance, Marina. She gasped when she saw me.
“Val, what have you done to yourself? You’ve let yourself go like this?”
I said nothing. She silently got to work. Cut, dyed, styled. I sat with my eyes closed. I was afraid to look.
“Open them,” Marina said when she finished.
I opened them. A stranger looked back at me from the mirror. A short, neat haircut. A soft, natural color—not dark, but not gray either. My face seemed brighter.
“Well then,” Marina said, pleased. “Now you look like yourself again.”
I paid and went outside. Walked slowly, watching my reflection in shop windows. Really—like a different person.
Tolya didn’t even notice at home. Came in, ate dinner, went to his room. Fine.
A week later I went to the pool. I’d wanted to for ages, but kept putting it off. I was scared—heavy, clumsy, showing myself in a swimsuit. But Petrovich was right: I had to do something.
I swam awkwardly, gulped water. But it felt good. In the water your body becomes light, your head clears. I started going three times a week. Then every day.
Meanwhile Tolya began staying out. Coming home late, sometimes not coming home at all. Said he was with friends, for work. I didn’t ask. I almost didn’t care.
Almost.
Inna called him constantly. I heard the way he spoke to her—tender, even fawning. I hadn’t heard that tone from him in years.
One night he came in angry. Threw his keys on the table, went to the kitchen, poured water. I wasn’t asleep—I was lying there reading.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m sick of her,” he grunted. “She’s demanding I move out for good. Says I can’t keep spreading myself across two homes.”
I sat up in bed.
“And what did you tell her?”
He was quiet.
“Told her I’d think about it.”
He’d think about it. So he still hadn’t decided whom to choose. Me—familiar, convenient, silent. Or her—bright, demanding, with attitude.
I lay back down and turned to the wall.
“Do whatever you want,” I said quietly.
Sveta threw a birthday party for her youngest—ten years old. Invited everyone. At first I didn’t want to go—what if Tolya showed up with Inna, it would be awkward. But then I thought: why should I hide? That’s my grandson.
I arrived among the first. Sveta opened the door, looked at me, and whistled.
“Mom—did you get younger?”
I smiled. In those two months I’d lost about eight kilos. Not on purpose—just swimming, walking, not sitting at home. I bought decent pants, a light blouse. Nothing special, but I liked it.
Guests kept arriving. Sveta’s friends, other parents from my grandson’s class. I stayed off to the side, helped in the kitchen. And then the doorbell rang.
Seryozha opened. I heard voices—Tolya’s, and another woman’s.
They came together.
Inna was wearing a red dress—revealing, bright, with a deep neckline. Sky-high heels. An elaborate hairstyle. She walked in, looked around, smiled widely.
Tolya walked beside her, a little confused. You could tell he hadn’t expected this reaction—people went quiet and stared. Sveta froze with a plate in her hands.
“Hello,” Inna said brightly. “We decided to drop by and congratulate the birthday boy.”
She handed over a bag—big, with a bow. My grandson Mishka took it uncertainly and looked at his mother. Sveta nodded.
I came out of the kitchen. Inna saw me and faltered for a second. She must have expected to see the same hunted, gray woman.
“Valentina Mikhailovna,” she forced out. “You… have changed.”
“It happens,” I said calmly.
Tolya stared at me as if he’d never seen me before. I could see him comparing—her and me. Brightness and calm. Noise and silence.
The evening dragged on. Inna tried to be the center of attention—laughed loudly, told some stories. But it was obvious she didn’t belong. The guests exchanged looks, answered politely but coldly.
Tolya sat next to her, but kept glancing in my direction. I talked with other parents, helped Sveta. I felt good. Peaceful.
Mishka came up to me when everyone was eating cake. Took my hand and tugged me toward the window.
“Grandma,” he said quietly. “Why did Grandpa come with that lady?”
“Well… they’re friends,” I said uncertainly.
Mishka shook his head.
“Doesn’t look like friends. And anyway, she’s weird. And you—you’re the prettiest grandma. Really.”
I hugged him. A lump rose in my throat. There it was—the truth, from the mouth of a child.
When the guests began to leave, Inna grabbed her bag and hurried out. Tolya stayed behind. He came up to me in the kitchen while I was washing dishes.
“Val,” he began. “I need to talk to you.”
“Talk.”
“I realized I overreacted. This Inna… it’s all nonsense. I want to come home.”
“Home?”
“Yeah. To you. Like before.”
Like before. He wanted everything to be like before.
“Tolya,” I said slowly. “And what’s changed? You still think you’re ashamed to be seen with me in public.”
He hesitated.
“Val, that’s not what I meant…”
“Then what did you mean?”
He said nothing. He didn’t know.
I came home late that evening. Sat in the kitchen, brewed myself mint tea. Sat there staring out the window. Streetlights glowed in the yard, someone was walking a dog.
Tolya came the next day. Rang the doorbell—apparently he’d forgotten his keys or felt too ashamed to use them. I opened.
“Can I come in?”
“Come in.”
He went in and sat on the couch. I stayed standing.
“Val, let’s talk seriously,” he started. “I know I was wrong. But we’ve been together for so many years. Do you really want to destroy everything because of my stupidity?”
“Tolya,” I said calmly. “You know, I was ashamed too. Only not of you. Of myself—that I lived with a man who could say that to me. And I kept thinking—why do I need this? Why should I be with someone who doesn’t respect me?”
“I do respect you!” he snapped. “I was just an idiot then, I didn’t think.”
“You did think. That’s exactly what you were thinking. And I don’t want to be near those thoughts anymore.”
He sat in silence. Then he got up and paced around the room.
“So what now? Divorce?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we will. Or maybe we’ll just live separately. I haven’t decided yet.”
“But—”
“Tolya, please go,” I cut him off. “I need to think.”
He left. I closed the door behind him and leaned my back against it. My legs were shaking. But inside—it felt light. For the first time in a long time—light.
A month later I started volunteering at the local cultural center. Helping organize exhibitions, meetings with writers. There were lots of women like me there—active, alive, interesting.
In the evenings we gathered, drank coffee, talked. About books, grandchildren, life. It turned out many had similar stories. Some had separated, some had repaired relationships, some had simply learned to live for themselves.
Tolya called sometimes. Asked how I was, whether I needed help. I answered briefly, politely. He lived on his own, in that apartment he’d once rented for meetings with Inna. She, they say, dumped him—found someone younger.
I didn’t rejoice in it. I just accepted it as a fact.
One evening, coming back from the center, I walked past our old building. Looked up—there was a light on in the window. Tolya was standing there, looking down. He saw me and waved.
I nodded and kept walking.
I didn’t look back
