Zoya left the clinic early — the appointment was canceled, the doctor had fallen ill. Good thing, at least! It had been a long time since she’d been given a gift like this: a free evening, a chance to cook dinner calmly instead of throwing something together in a rush, as usual.
She turned the key in the lock quietly — she didn’t want to wake Andrey if he was dozing after work. But it turned out he wasn’t dozing.
Voices from the kitchen.
“I can’t do this anymore, Lena. Hiding it every weekend…” That was Andrey, his voice strangely tired.
“And what do you want? Just go and tell her everything?” her sister Elena replied. When had she even come over?
Zoya froze by the slightly open door. Something inside her lurched.
“If Zoyka finds out, everything will fall apart,” her husband continued. “Thirty years of marriage down the drain.”
“You have to decide,” Elena’s voice turned harder, “whether you’re going to keep going to her every Saturday.”
To her?!
“How can I abandon her? She’s completely alone. She has nobody but me.”
“And do you have a wife, or not?”
Zoya gripped the doorframe. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like the whole house was shaking.
So it wasn’t fishing.
So it wasn’t trips to the lakes with Petrovich.
So her husband had some woman he was running off to every weekend.
“You understand, Lena, if I tell her now — she’ll hate me. For lying. But if I don’t tell her…” Andrey let out a heavy sigh. “My conscience is eating me alive.”
“Conscience!” Elena snorted. “Where was it before?”
“Before, it was easier. But now she’s gotten really bad.”
“Listen, maybe it’s time to explain everything to Zoya honestly?”
“Are you crazy!” Andrey panicked. “She’ll kill me! Or worse — she’ll throw me out. Where am I supposed to go at sixty?”
Zoya recoiled from the door.
For thirty years she’d made him cutlets for the road “for fishing.” She’d ironed his shirts, washed his rubber boots. She’d worried when he came home late.
And he’d been going to someone else.
And Lena knew!
Her own sister knew — and kept silent!
My God.
How blind she’d been.
“All right,” Elena said. “I have to go. But think about it — how long can this go on? Sooner or later it’ll surface.”
“I know. I understand.”
Zoya heard footsteps toward the door — and darted into the bathroom.
She needed time.
Time to understand what to do with this truth.
Time to decide how to live дальше.
Or maybe — whether there was any point in living at all.
In the bathroom, Zoya stared at herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman looking back. Was that really her — Zoya Petrovna, the model wife?
More like a model fool.
She came out to her husband with an ordinary face. He was sitting at the table, flipping through the newspaper — so familiar, so domestic.
“Oh, Zoечка!” he said with forced cheer. “Early today.”
“The appointment was canceled.”
“Lena stopped by. Said hello.”
Liar. She’d said something very different.
“Will you have dinner?” Zoya asked in an even voice.
“Of course! What are you making?”
“Cutlets. Like always.”
The week that followed was hell. Zoya watched her husband’s every gesture, every word. And she saw it — lies everywhere: the way he hid his phone, the way he got edgy on Fridays, the way he packed his “fishing gear.”
And on Saturday morning she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Andrey, why don’t we go fishing together?” she suggested innocently.
He turned pale.
“Why? You’ll be bored there.”
“I want to try. Maybe I’ll like it.”
“No-no-no,” he waved his hands. “It’s cold there, and there are tons of mosquitoes. You’d лучше rest at home.”
And he left — with a guilty look on his face.
And Zoya was left alone with thoughts that gnawed at her from the inside like worms.
On Monday she decided to talk to her sister.
“Lena, we need to talk.”
“About what?” Elena grew wary.
“Oh, you know. Heart-to-heart. It’s been a while.”
They met at a café on neutral ground. Elena was nervous, twisting a ring on her finger.
“How are you?” Zoya began carefully.
“Fine. And you?”
“We’re fine too. Andrey’s really gotten into fishing.”
Her sister choked on her coffee.
“Oh? And how often does he go?”
“Every Saturday. Like he’s obsessed.”
“Men are like that,” Elena mumbled. “They have hobbies.”
“And do you know where exactly he fishes?”
“Me? How would I know?”
But her eyes darted. She was lying.
“I’m just thinking — maybe I’ll go with him sometime. See what’s so wonderful about this fishing.”
“Zoya, why?” Elena suddenly turned serious. “Leave the man alone. Everyone needs personal space.”
Personal space! That’s what she calls cheating?
“Lena,” Zoya leaned closer, “do you know something?”
“I don’t know anything!” her sister snapped. “And I don’t want to know. And I советую you not to meddle.”
She stood up and left.
Leaving Zoya with a bitter certainty: her sister was covering for him.
At home, Zoya decided to run her own investigation. She searched Andrey’s pockets, checked his wallet, looked through the car.
And she found it.
In the glove compartment — receipts. Some kind of regular payments. Fifteen thousand every month.
Private care home “Nadezhda.” The town of Svetlogorsk.
A care home?!
Not a dacha, not a fishing base. A care home.
Zoya sat there with the receipt and understood: her world was collapsing for good. A care home — that was for sick people. For those who needed care.
So Andrey had someone sick. Someone he supported. Someone he visited every Saturday.
A wife? A mistress?
She didn’t sleep all night, turning possibilities over in her head — and each was worse than the last.
In the morning she made a decision.
She’d go herself. To that Svetlogorsk. She’d see with her own eyes what secrets her husband was hiding.
On Friday she took the day off. Said she had to see a doctor.
The road to Svetlogorsk took three hours. Three hours to wind herself up completely. Three hours imagining the worst.
The care home turned out to be small and cozy. A sign read: “For people with disabilities.”
Disabled people.
Her heart gave a jolt. Could it be that Andrey had a disabled person she knew nothing about?
“Who are you here to see?” the nurse at reception asked.
“I…” Zoya hesitated. “Could you tell me who’s here from Andrey Nikolayevich Sokolov?”
“Are you a relative?”
“His wife.”
The nurse flipped through a journal.
“Natalya Sokolova, Room Twelve. Go in.”
Sokolova!
She had his last name!
Zoya stood in front of the door to Room Twelve and couldn’t force herself to enter. Behind that door was the truth — the very truth she feared and was searching for at the same time.
Natalya Sokolova.
Carrying her husband’s surname.
Her hand trembled as she pressed down the handle.
“May I?”
The room was bright, smelled of medicine and some kind of flowers. By the window, in a wheelchair, sat a woman. Young — no more than thirty-five. Dark-haired, thin.
And very much like Andrey.
“Are you here for me?” the woman asked, surprised. Her voice was weak, but pleasant.
“I…” Zoya swallowed. “My name is Zoya. And you’re Natalya?”
“Yes. Do we know each other?”
Do they? How could she answer that?
“I’m Andrey Sokolov’s wife.”
Natalya’s face changed instantly. It went pale; her eyes widened.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You know everything?”
“Now I do.” Zoya stepped closer. “Tell me.”
“I can’t… Dad asked me not to tell anyone.”
Dad.
Zoya felt her knees go weak. She sat down on the chair by the bed.
“He’s your father?”
“Yes.” Natalya burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to… He said you don’t have children, and you would be so upset if you found out about me.”
“Wait,” Zoya raised a hand. “Let’s go in order. How old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
Thirty-four! That meant she was born a year before their wedding — when Andrey had been seeing someone else.
“And your mother?”
“Mom died two years ago. Cancer.” Natalya wiped her tears. “Dad helped us all this time. Sent money, visited. And when Mom was gone, he arranged for me to stay here. I have cerebral palsy — I can’t live on my own.”
Zoya said nothing, trying to digest it.
Her husband had a daughter. A sick daughter he supported. And she’d known nothing for thirty years.
“He’s good,” Natalya continued through tears. “He comes every Saturday. Brings food, medicine. He talks about you. Says how wonderful you are.”
“Talks about me?”
“Yes. He loves you so much. He always says: ‘My Zoечка, my Zoечка.’ He says you’re the best wife in the world.”
Zoya let out a bitter laugh.
“The best wife — the one he’s been deceiving for thirty years.”
“He’s not deceiving you!” Natalya flared up. “He’s just afraid! Afraid you’ll leave him if you find out. Because I’m not like everyone. I’m sick. A burden.”
“You are not a burden.”
“For many people I am. Mom used to say: ‘Better if you hadn’t been born.’ But Dad never said that. He said I’m his daughter, and he’s responsible for me.”
A knock sounded at the door. A nurse walked in.
“Natushenka, you have a guest! That’s good.” Then she noticed the girl’s face. “Did something happen?”
“Everything’s fine, Lyudmila Ivanovna. This is… this is Aunt Zoya.”
Aunt Zoya.
“Oh!” the nurse brightened. “Finally you’ve met! Andrey Nikolayevich talks about you so much. He says you’re very kind and understanding.”
Kind and understanding — and she’d been playing detective, suspecting her husband of an affair.
The nurse left, and they were alone again.
“Tell me about your mother,” Zoya asked.
“Mom was beautiful. Dad dated her until he met you. When they saw what I was born like, Mom said he didn’t need a family with a sick child. Let him go to a healthy woman. To you.”
“And he left?”
“He wanted to stay. To marry Mom. But she wouldn’t let him. She said she didn’t need a man out of pity. If he loved someone else — go to her.”
“And then?”
“And then he married you. But he didn’t abandon us. He helped. When I got older, he began coming to visit. Mom allowed it — on the condition that you never found out. She was afraid your family would fall apart because of us.”
Zoya sat there thinking. All her life she’d envied women with children. She’d cried when another IVF attempt failed. And her husband had a daughter — always had.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked quietly.
“He was afraid. He said you dreamed so much of children. And then you’d find out he already had a child — and a sick one. He thought you’d hate him.”
“Hate him for what?”
“For lying. For spending family money on me — money that could have gone to your children. For taking time away.”
Natalya fell silent, then added quietly:
“He suffers a lot. Every time he comes, he says: ‘How do I tell my Zoечка? How do I explain?’ And I say: ‘Dad, maybe she’ll understand.’”
In the hallway came familiar footsteps — heavy, unhurried.
Andrey.
“Oh no,” Natalya whispered. “He doesn’t know you’re here!”
The steps drew closer.
“Hi, my доченька!” her husband’s voice sounded from behind the door.
Zoya turned.
Andrey stood in the doorway with a bouquet of flowers and a bag of groceries. He saw his wife — and the bag slipped from his hands.
“Zoya?” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to meet your daughter,” she said calmly.
Andrey went white and leaned on the doorframe.
“How did you find out?”
“Your fault. You didn’t cover your tracks well.”
He stepped into the room, closed the door, and sat heavily on a chair.
“Well,” he said, defeated. “That’s it. Now you know.”
“Now I know.”
“Do you hate me?”
Zoya looked at him, then at Natalya.
“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to understand.”
“And what’s there to understand? I lied for thirty years. Lied about fishing. Spent our family money.”
“Dad, don’t!” Natalya cut in. “Aunt Zoya, he’s good! He was just afraid!”
Zoya stood and walked to the window.
Outside was an ordinary yard: trees, benches, paths. Ordinary life.
And here — her life was falling apart and being put back together.
“I need to think,” she finally said.
For three days Zoya didn’t speak to Andrey. Not a word. He drifted around the house like a ghost, trying to say something — she stayed silent. She cooked, cleaned, but as if he didn’t exist.
And she thought.
She thought about living thirty years in ignorance. About having a stepdaughter. About her husband being more afraid of the truth than of a lie.
On Wednesday evening she couldn’t hold out anymore.
“Sit down,” she told Andrey. “We’re going to talk.”
He sat opposite her, hands folded on the table, waiting for the verdict.
“I went to see Natalya again,” Zoya began. “We talked properly.”
“And?”
“And I understood something. You’re an idiot, Andrey.”
He flinched.
“An idiot because you thought I’d reject a sick child. An idiot because you suffered alone for thirty years instead of suffering together.”
“Zoya…”
“Be quiet. I’m not finished.” She stood and paced the kitchen. “You thought I was such a monster that I’d leave my husband because of a disabled child. You thought I was that petty…”
“No! I was just afraid of losing you!”
“And you almost lost me for real.”
Andrey lowered his head.
“I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But forgive me.”
“Stand up.”
He stood.
“Tomorrow we’re going to Natalya. Together. And I want to talk to the doctors about whether she can be moved to live with us.”
Andrey blinked.
“What?”
“What you heard. If she’s my daughter — and she is my daughter now — she should live close to family.”
“But… she’s disabled, she needs care…”
“We’ll hire a caregiver. We’ll set up a room. We’ll manage.” Zoya took her husband’s hands. “Do you know what I wanted most for thirty years?”
“A child.”
“A family. A real family. And now I have it. An idiot husband and a special daughter — but a family.”
Andrey started crying. Zoya had probably never seen his tears.
“Are you serious? You’ll accept her?”
“I already have. Yesterday I bought her new pajamas and shampoo. We’ll bring them tomorrow.”
He hugged her tight, tight.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You don’t,” Zoya agreed. “But you’ll have to put up with me. Only one condition: no more lies. Ever.”
“I promise.”
“And one more thing. I want Natalya to call me Mom. If I’m a mother now, then for real.”
A month later Natalya moved in with them. She took the former storage room — small, but bright. Zoya personally chose the wallpaper, the curtains, the bedspread.
“Mom,” the girl said on the first evening, “are you sure? I’m a burden…”
“If you say that word one more time, I’ll spank you with a belt,” Zoya threatened. “You’re not a burden. You’re my daughter. Period.”
And that evening, when Natalya was asleep, Zoya and Andrey sat in the kitchen drinking tea.
“You know,” Zoya said, “life has only just begun.”
“At sixty?”
“Exactly. Now we’re a real family. Not a husband and wife quietly bored with each other. We’re parents. We have a daughter we need to help get on her feet.”
Andrey nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just never be afraid to tell me anything again.”
“I won’t.”
And from Natalya’s room came quiet laughter — she was watching a comedy on her tablet.
And it was the best sound in the world
