Larisa Pavlovna stood in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the collar of her snow-white blouse. Behind her, her husband’s familiar voice rang out:
“Have you turned those shows on again? Lara, how long can this go on? Twenty years of the same thing—kitchen, TV, kitchen, TV.”
She didn’t turn around. On the screen, a pastry chef from France was demonstrating the technique for making macarons. Larisa watched every movement of his hands closely, mentally noting the proportions.
“These aren’t shows, Volodya. They’re master classes,” she replied softly, still watching.
“What’s the difference!” Vladimir walked into the kitchen, where freshly baked éclairs were cooling on the table. “And you’ve stuffed yourself with that nonsense again. Look at yourself, Lara. Twenty years ago you were different.”
Larisa knew what he meant. After having the children she’d gained weight, but not drastically. She just wasn’t the delicate girl he’d fallen for at university anymore. Now she was a forty-two-year-old woman, the mother of two children who studied at university and came home only for holidays.
“The kids love my baking,” she said without turning to him.
“The kids are grown up, Lara. And you’re still stuck in that kitchen.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But in recent months his dissatisfaction had grown sharper, more painful. Larisa could feel something had changed, though she didn’t understand what.
The answer came a week later.
“I’ve met someone else,” Vladimir said, sitting across from his wife at the kitchen table. Between them was a plate of apple charlotte she had baked—untouched.
Larisa slowly set down her fork. Something clenched in her stomach, but her voice came out surprisingly calm:
“I see.”
“She’s young, she takes care of herself. She works at our company—in marketing.” Vladimir spoke without looking at his wife. “Lara, we need to talk seriously.”
“Go on.”
“I want to leave you for her.”
Larisa nodded as if he’d told her tomorrow’s weather.
“And what about me?”
“The apartment stays yours. I’ll pay child support until the kids finish university.” He finally looked at her. “Lara, understand—I can’t do this anymore. You… you’re not the woman I married. You’re fat, you’re uninteresting. You’re always in the kitchen with those stupid little pies, watching TV shows…”
“I don’t watch TV shows,” Larisa interrupted quietly.
“What’s the difference! You’ve turned into a house hen. Sveta has ambition, plans for her life. She wants to grow, travel…”
“And I don’t?”
“Lara, be honest with yourself. When was the last time you read anything besides cooking recipes? When was the last time we talked about something other than what to make for dinner?”
Larisa got up from the table and went to the window. In the courtyard children were playing; their laughter drifted through the glass.
“Fine,” she said without turning around. “Go.”
Vladimir seemed to be expecting tears, hysteria, an attempt to hold him back. Her calmness threw him off.
“Lara, I don’t want to hurt you…”
“You already did.” She turned around and, for the first time during the conversation, smiled. “But you know what, Volodya? Maybe it’s for the best.”
A month later Vladimir moved out. The children, who came home for the holidays, took the divorce philosophically. Twenty-year-old Andrey even told his mother:
“Mom, honestly, I haven’t understood for a long time what kept you together. Dad was always grumbling, and you… you just put up with it.”
Eighteen-year-old Katya was more emotional:
“Mom, are you going to live alone now? Won’t you get bored?”
Larisa thought about the question. Bored? For the first time in many years she could do what she wanted without looking over her shoulder at someone else’s disapproval—watch her master classes, experiment with new recipes, read books on pastry craft.
The idea came unexpectedly. Larisa was watching another lesson from the French pastry chef, taking notes in her notebook, when it suddenly hit her: she knew more about baking than many professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, thousands of master classes watched, hundreds of recipes tested. She had knowledge, skill, and—most importantly—passion.
“A pastry shop,” she said out loud, and the word sounded magical.
Searching for the right space took two months. Larisa drove around half of Moscow before she found what she was looking for: a small hall on the ground floor of a residential building in a quiet neighborhood, with big windows and a separate entrance.
“The space is good,” the landlord said—a man in his fifties with graying hair and attentive gray eyes. “But no one’s ever considered it for a pastry shop. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Larisa replied, studying the room and already arranging display cases and little tables in her mind.
“My name’s Igor,” he introduced himself. “Igor Mikhailovich. And you?”
“Larisa Pavlovna.”
“Very nice.” He smiled, and Larisa noticed how kindly his eyes lit up. “You know, I have a proposal. If you really plan to open a pastry shop here, I could help with the renovation. I have connections—builders, electricians. We’ll do everything quickly and well.”
“That’s very kind of you, but…”
“No ‘buts,’” he cut in. “Honestly, your idea interests me. There isn’t a single decent pastry shop in the area—just chain cafés with frozen cakes. And here there could be something of your own, homemade.”
Larisa looked at him carefully. There was no falseness or hidden motive in his words—just sincere interest.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s try.”
The renovation really did go quickly. Igor Mikhailovich not only kept his promises, he suggested a lot of useful ideas for the layout. He often dropped by to check on the work, and gradually their business conversations began turning into more personal ones.
“Did you always want to bake professionally?” he asked one day, watching Larisa explain to the electrician where to install extra outlets for pastry equipment.
“No,” she answered honestly. “Before, it was just a hobby. I baked for my family, for friends. And now…” She paused, searching for words. “Now I have the chance to do what I truly love.”
“The divorce?” Igor asked delicately.
“Yes. My husband thought my cooking was a waste of time.” Larisa gave a bitter little smile. “He said I was a fat, boring housewife who did nothing but bake pies and watch TV series.”
“TV series?” Igor looked surprised. “I thought you were watching cooking programs. The last time I came by, you had a show about French desserts playing on your tablet.”
Larisa stared at him, startled. In twenty years of marriage Vladimir had never once paid attention to what she was actually watching. This man had noticed the first time.
“Yes, they’re master classes,” she confirmed. “I’ve been studying them for years.”
“Then you have a solid theoretical foundation,” Igor nodded approvingly. “And practical experience?”
“Twenty years of daily practice,” Larisa smiled. “It’s just that before, only my family and the neighbors got to enjoy my work.”
“Lucky them,” Igor said sincerely—and Larisa felt something warm spread through her chest.
The pastry shop, “Larisa’s Sweets,” opened three months after the divorce. On the first day only five customers came; on the second, ten. But a week later a small line was already forming at the entrance. Larisa baked cakes, pastries, macarons—using the very recipes she had studied for years on TV and online. And every time she saw her customers’ happy faces, she understood she had finally found her place in life.
Igor came in almost every day. At first it was under the pretext of checking how the equipment was working; later, just to drink coffee and try her new creations. Gradually, those visits became the nicest part of Larisa’s day.
“You know,” he said one day, finishing a piece of honey cake, “I have a proposal.”
“What kind?” Larisa wiped her hands on her apron, preparing for a business discussion.
“To go to the theater with me.”
Larisa froze. The last time she’d been to the theater was about ten years ago—with Vladimir, who spent the entire second half of the performance staring at his phone.
“I…” she faltered. “Igor Mikhailovich, we…”
“We’re adults,” he said gently. “And it seems we enjoy each other’s company. Or am I wrong?”
Larisa looked at him carefully. Igor was a few years older than she was, but he looked younger than fifty-five: tall, fit, with intelligent eyes and a welcoming smile. And most importantly—he didn’t see a “fat housewife” in her, but an interesting woman.
“You’re not wrong,” she said quietly.
Their relationship grew slowly: theaters, exhibitions, restaurants. Igor showed Larisa a world she had almost forgotten during the years of marriage and motherhood. And she opened for him an entire universe of culinary art—explaining the subtleties of different desserts, sharing plans to expand the menu.
“You’re an amazing woman,” he told her one evening as they sat in her apartment with coffee and slices of pistachio cake she’d baked herself. “So driven, talented, beautiful…”
“Igor,” Larisa laughed, “don’t lie to me. I’ve seen myself in the mirror.”
“And I look at you every day,” he answered seriously. “And I see a woman who has found herself and blossomed. You glow from the inside, Lara. And that makes you beautiful.”
He proposed a year after the pastry shop opened—simply, without fanfare—on a Sunday morning as they ate breakfast in her kitchen: blini with homemade jam.
“Lara, let’s get married,” he said, spreading raspberry jam on a pancake.
She almost choked on her coffee.
“What?”
“Well, it seems logical,” Igor smiled. “We love each other, we’re happy together. I have a big apartment, you have a wonderful business. We could build a family.”
“And the children?” Larisa asked. “Do you have children?”
“I had a son. He died in a car accident three years ago—along with his wife.” Igor’s face darkened. “After that I thought I’d never be able to be happy again. And then I met you.”
Larisa reached out and covered his hand with hers.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Let’s get married.”
They had a modest wedding—only the closest people. Andrey and Katya came from university, a few of Igor’s friends, and several neighbor-customers from the pastry shop. Larisa was happy in a way she hadn’t been for a very long time.
And half a year after the wedding Katya announced her engagement. Her fiancé, Sergey, turned out to be the son of wealthy parents, and the wedding was planned to be grand, with many guests.
“Mom, are you going to invite Dad?” Katya asked when they were discussing the guest list.
Larisa hesitated. Vladimir was the father of her children, and it would be strange not to invite him to their daughter’s wedding. But meeting her ex-husband after everything that had happened…
“I’ll invite him,” she decided. “For you.”
On the wedding day Larisa looked stunning. In two years of independent life she had lost fifteen kilos—not because of diets, but simply because she was happy and active. An elegant sea-green dress emphasized her figure, and such joy shone in her eyes that people smiled involuntarily just looking at her.
Vladimir came alone. In those two years he had noticeably aged, even though he was only three years older than Larisa. His affair with Sveta ended after six months—she found a more promising partner—and Vladimir was left in a rented one-room apartment, with a job that no longer brought him satisfaction, and the understanding that he had made a huge mistake.
He saw Larisa from afar and didn’t recognize her at first. This confident, radiant woman looked nothing like the downtrodden housewife he had divorced. Beside her stood a tall, gray-haired man who looked at her with such tenderness that something tightened in Vladimir’s chest.
“Dad!” Katya ran up and hugged him. “I’m so glad you came! Come on, I’ll introduce you to Sergey’s parents.”
Vladimir spent the whole evening watching his ex-wife. Larisa was the center of attention among the guests; everyone praised the cake she had baked especially for her daughter’s wedding. Her new husband never left her side—bringing her a coat, fetching champagne, introducing her as “my wonderful wife.”
By the end of the evening Vladimir couldn’t take it anymore. He approached Larisa when she was alone for a moment.
“Lara,” he called.
She turned. There was no anger or resentment on her face—only mild surprise.
“Hi, Volodya.”
“You… you look very good,” he said awkwardly.
“Thank you.”
“I heard you have your own pastry shop now. How’s it going?”
“Pretty well.” Larisa smiled. “Turns out those ‘stupid little pies,’ as you called them, are something many people like.”
Vladimir winced at the jab—but he’d earned it.
“Lara, I wanted to say… I was wrong back then. About a lot.”
“I know,” she replied calmly.
“And this… husband of yours…” He forced the word out. “He treats you well?”
“Very well.”
“So—someone actually needed you like this?” her ex-husband couldn’t believe her happiness.
He didn’t even understand why he said it—maybe out of spite at himself, at his stupidity, at the happiness he’d thrown away.
Larisa looked at him for a long time, carefully.
“Like this?” she repeated.
“Well…” Vladimir faltered, realizing how stupid it sounded. “I mean…”
“You mean—fat housewife who only knows how to bake pies and watch TV series?” There was no anger in Larisa’s voice, only weariness.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“Volodya,” Larisa said softly, “I haven’t changed. I just finally met someone who knows how to see.”
Igor approached with two glasses of champagne.
“Darling,” he said, handing Larisa a glass, “Sergey’s parents want to order a cake from you for their anniversary.” He turned to Vladimir. “Sorry, we haven’t met. Igor Mikhailovich.”
“Vladimir… Larisa’s ex-husband,” Vladimir introduced himself.
“Oh! So you’re the idiot who left my wife!” Igor said, genuinely delighted. “Do you know how lucky I am that you did? Now I have the most beautiful, intelligent, talented woman in the world. Thank you so much!”
Vladimir stood there with his mouth open. And Igor went on:
“Honestly, I still don’t understand how you failed to see such a treasure. But your loss is my gain.” He put an arm around Larisa’s waist. “By the way, have you tried her cakes? No? You absolutely must before you leave. Lara has golden hands.”
Vladimir nodded silently and stepped away. He didn’t approach his ex-wife again that evening.
Larisa watched him go and thought about how differently a life can be lived. You can spend twenty years trying to prove your worth to someone—or you can meet a person for whom you are, from the start, the most precious thing in the world.
“What are you thinking about?” Igor asked, noticing her thoughtful look.
“About how lucky I am,” Larisa smiled, and kissed her husband on the cheek.
And a few tables away, Vladimir sat alone, realizing he had missed the most important thing in his life. But it was too late. Larisa was no longer his wife—she was another man’s wife. A man who had managed to see in her what Vladimir had never learned to see in all the years of their marriage.
When the celebration ended, Larisa and Igor rode home in a taxi. Outside the window the lights of night Moscow flickered past, and inside her it was warm and calm.
“Do you regret marrying me?” Igor asked, taking her hand in his.
“Not for a second,” Larisa answered honestly. “And you?”
“Every day I thank fate that we met,” he said, and kissed her hand.
Larisa leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Ahead was a long, happy life with a man who valued her exactly as she was. And behind her were the years when she tried to be convenient for someone who never learned how to love her.
In the morning she woke up in her husband’s arms as he whispered in her ear how beautiful she was. And for the first time in many years, Larisa believed it might truly be so
