Bored of Happiness
Maxim had been catching himself thinking something strange more and more often: it was as if he was living someone else’s life.
On paper, everything looked exactly right. A spacious three-room apartment with a wide balcony where his wife grew flowers in pots every summer. A wife—Vera: calm, caring, never demanding, pretty in her own quiet way, even if not the kind of beauty that turned heads. Two children—a boy and a girl. At work, he was respected: his bosses valued his reliability, and his coworkers listened when he spoke. Sometimes his friends even envied him.
“You’re a lucky man, Max,” one of them would say over a mug of beer. “Your wife is pure gold.”
Maxim would smile back, but the smile always came out faded. Deep down, he felt unhappy. He could not fully explain why. It was as though a silent but stubborn ache lived inside him, gnawing at him day after day, never letting him rest. Even in the evenings, when the apartment was full of comfort—when the air smelled of fresh pastries, when the warm light of the lamp softened the neatly set table, when bright laughter drifted in from the children’s room—even then, Maxim felt an emptiness in his chest.
Vera tried in everything. She kept the house so perfectly that no one could find fault with it: the shelves gleamed, the kitchen always smelled of borscht or pies, the children were clean and neat as if they had stepped out of a picture book. Even when Maxim came home from work tired and irritable, she greeted him without reproach. Vera seemed never to allow herself weakness: she hid her exhaustion behind a smile, served him a hot dinner, and asked in her soft, even voice:
“How was your day?”
It would seem he had everything a man could want. But in precisely those moments, Maxim felt more clearly than ever that something was missing.
He felt it most sharply whenever Vera dared to disagree with him. On the surface, it was always about something small. He would suggest going to the sea in summer, and she would object, saying it was too expensive and that it would be better to buy the children new jackets and pay for their activities. He would start talking about a new car, and Vera would brush it aside: “Let’s wait until we finish paying off the current loan.” And Maxim would feel irritation boiling up inside him. He was used to believing that his word should be the final one.
That was when Tamara would rise again from the depths of his memory—his first love, his unreachable dream.
Toma had been completely different. She never argued. She accepted every word he said as truth, looking at him as though he were the center of her universe—the smartest, strongest, most important man in the world. Beside her, he had felt like a real man. Maxim often thought that if life had turned out differently, if Tamara had become his wife, everything would have been different now. There would have been no small irritations, no endless objections, no feeling of resistance. He would have bathed in her unconditional admiration and agreement the way a person bathes in warm sea water.
As the years passed, those memories only grew brighter. The older Maxim became, the more often the image of Tamara floated through his mind—just as she had been in his youth: luminous, airy, almost unearthly.
Sometimes at night, lying in his wide bed, he would close his eyes and imagine that the woman beside him was not Vera, but Toma. At that very moment, Vera would still be bustling around in the kitchen—washing dishes, preparing food for the children for the next day. He could hear the clink of plates, the creak of the refrigerator door. He wanted his wife to come to him beautiful and carefree, dressed in lace lingerie, slip into bed beside him, press herself against him. But instead, Vera would quietly enter the bedroom in her plain cotton nightgown covered in tiny flowers, trying not to make a sound so as not to wake the children. Maxim would twist his lips in faint disgust. It seemed to him as though he had suddenly been transported into another century. Cotton, modesty, constant fatigue—nothing feminine, nothing passionate. In moments like that, it became clearer and clearer to him: his wife was not a woman at all, but merely a housekeeper.
And that irritation grew like a weed pushing its way through cracks in stone. At first, Maxim barely noticed it. He blamed it on tiredness, on a bad mood. But over time he began to see little things that had once slipped past him: the way she dressed “like someone from the countryside,” the way she wore outdated makeup, the hairstyles that looked deliberately old-fashioned, the fact that she only wore heels on special occasions. A woman in heels—that was something else entirely, he thought: her walk, her posture, her entire presence transformed. In his mind, Tamara would surely have worn elegant shoes every day, dresses that flattered her figure, a fashionable haircut, a spark in her eyes. Everything about her would have been easy, beautiful, modern. Beside Vera, he felt as though he had been dragged back into a gray past.
More and more often, Maxim caught himself comparing his wife to that first love from his youth, and every time Vera came up short.
“What if I met Toma again?” he would think while lying in the dark, listening to his wife’s calm breathing. “What if fate gave me one more chance to start over? I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d leave Vera for her. Then I’d finally live for real. The kind of life a man could envy himself for.”
Meanwhile, life went on as usual. Days stretched into years, the children grew older. Vera, as always, was there—caring, patient, attentive. She never complained, never asked for too much, never demanded the impossible. She seemed to dissolve into the family, guarding their peace. But that, more than anything, weighed on Maxim. Her endless care, her constant steadiness, no longer felt like support. It felt like a noose.
He escaped more and more often into fantasy. He would sit at the dinner table in the evening, nodding while Vera spoke about the children’s schoolwork or the neighbor who had once again asked to borrow money, but inwardly he was far away. In his mind he lived another life—a life where Tamara was beside him. In that imagined world, there was no routine, no exhaustion, no endless responsibilities. There, she looked at him with admiring eyes, laughed at all his jokes, agreed with every word. And he felt like a hero, a king, one of a kind.
Sometimes Maxim almost began to believe it was possible. That all he had to do was want it badly enough, search for her, and everything would change.
“What if her life didn’t work out either?” he would think. “Maybe she has been waiting for me all this time, just as I’ve been waiting for her.”
But the more he fed those fantasies, the colder his heart became toward Vera. He looked at his wife and saw only disappointment, only failure to match the image in his mind. Everything felt wrong: her clothes, her voice, her smile, even her very presence.
And in his dreams there was Tamara. The same Tamara with huge trusting eyes that once looked up at him as though he contained her entire world. The girl who listened to every word he said and nodded with admiration, as if his thoughts were truths carved in stone. In his memory, Tamara had remained exactly what first love always becomes in hindsight—perfect, flawless, almost beyond reach. His dreams of her warmed him and tortured him at the same time, turning into a sweet pain he had come to mistake for real happiness.
Then one day autumn itself seemed to arrange a scene to match his mood.
The sky hung low and heavy, pressing down from above. Gray clouds dragged themselves across it one after another. The air was damp and sharp. Fallen leaves clung to the pavement. The few passersby, wrapped tightly in scarves, walked quickly without lifting their eyes, eager to reach the warmth of their apartments.
Maxim wandered slowly, tired, almost as if he were deliberately delaying the moment he had to go home. His thoughts were tangled, and a weight sat in his chest. He had no desire at all to return there. At home, the same things were waiting for him: Vera with her signature borscht, cabbage rolls, or fish pie, her familiar questions—“How was your day?” “What shall we do this weekend?” “Are we going to the country house?” All of it sounded painfully familiar, ordinary, like a dream repeating itself over and over, with no way out.
“I’m sick of it,” he muttered aloud.
And suddenly, without even deciding to, he found his feet carrying him in another direction. He got on an old bus route he had not taken in years. Half an hour later, he stepped off at a stop he knew all too well. His heart began to beat faster. This was the place where Tamara had once lived. This was the place where he had been truly happy, for the first time in his life.
He walked slowly through the nearly empty streets, and memories came crashing over him. He remembered standing outside her building on winter evenings, freezing in the cold but waiting patiently just to see her smile. He remembered walking her to the door and dreaming that one day she would say yes and become his wife.
And now he was standing there again.
The building was almost the same, though the paint on the walls had peeled, and most of the old wooden windows had been replaced with plastic ones. Maxim sat down on a bench by the entrance and suddenly felt a strange surge of joy, a forgotten trembling excitement. But with it came sorrow too—bitter and sharp.
“I should have insisted,” he thought. “I should have fought for her.”
Tamara had turned him down only once, saying firmly that she would not marry him. And he, proud and wounded, had turned away. He had not tried to win her back. He had simply left, slamming the door behind him. And now he had regretted that decision all his life.
He sat there lost in thought until suddenly he heard a voice—soft, but so familiar it made him shiver.
“Maxim?”
He flinched as if someone had touched his shoulder. Slowly he looked up—and froze.
Tamara stood before him.
The very woman he had dreamed of for years, the one he had painted in his imagination night after night. And now she was exactly as he had pictured her: a well-kept face, light tasteful makeup, a modern haircut, fashionable clothes that fit perfectly. Femininity, elegance, ease—everything about her seemed to say that time had only sharpened her beauty.
“Tamara…” he breathed, barely able to speak.
She looked at him with surprise, but a second later her lips curved into a warm smile.
“Well, look at this!” she exclaimed. “How many years has it been? What are you doing here?”
Maxim scrambled for an answer. He could not admit that he had come there because of her, because of the ghost of their youth. So he lied, saying he had been nearby on business and had decided to walk through the old neighborhood and remember the past.
“What a coincidence!” Tamara laughed, bright and ringing, just as she had long ago. “Come up. Have some tea with me. We’ll talk.”
And he went.
Her apartment was full of comfort, and the warmth of it seemed to wrap itself around him the moment he entered. A bright living room, modern furniture, light curtains, careful details that created a sense of harmony. Maxim caught himself thinking that this was exactly how he had always imagined the “right” kind of home—light, beautiful, effortless. Tamara knew how to create an atmosphere. It had captivated him once, and now it touched him again.
They sat in the kitchen as they had years before—only now they were no longer teenagers, but adults carrying whole decades behind them. Yet the words came easily, as though time had not passed at all. They remembered school friends, neighbors, evening walks, ridiculous stories. Maxim felt young and carefree again. His heart beat faster, his cheeks flushed with laughter, and everything seemed simple and bright.
Then, at some point, he could no longer hold back. Looking at her—beautiful, alive, right there in front of him—he said what he had been carrying for years.
“You know, Toma… I never forgot you. So many years have passed, and I still think about you. Often. Too often. I dreamed of seeing you again, dreamed of sitting beside you like this.”
She lowered her eyes, but smiled—a sad smile, touched with regret.
“And I, Max… do you know, I regret it too. I was married, but it didn’t work out. And all that time I kept remembering you. I thought, if only I had said yes back then, everything might have turned out differently. I’ve spent years regretting that I didn’t marry you.”
His breath caught in his throat.
Her words sounded like music. It was as if the whole world had gone silent so he could hear them properly. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. He looked at her and did not know what to do with the happiness flooding through him.
They talked for a long time after that. They laughed, turned serious, shared memories, and the whole evening felt like a miracle. But midnight drew near, and Maxim rose reluctantly to leave.
“Well then, Max,” Tamara said, walking him to the door, “don’t disappear again.”
As he went down the stairs, he could barely stop himself from leaping with joy. He felt light, as if wings had grown on his back. In his mind, images of the future came instantly: he would leave Vera, he and Toma would begin a new life, and he would finally be happy—truly happy, the way he had dreamed all these years. He even imagined how he would tell Vera:
“Vera, you’re a wonderful woman, but Toma is better. Forgive me.”
No, he thought, maybe he should say it more gently.
But just as he stepped out of the entrance, he suddenly ran into Andrei—a former classmate, Tamara’s old neighbor. Andrei was still tall and broad-shouldered, though now streaked with early gray.
“Max?” Andrei said, stopping in surprise. “Why are you looking so pleased with yourself? Like you just won the lottery. Where are you coming from?”
Maxim, too full of happiness to hide it, smiled—and before he could stop himself, he let the truth slip.
“I was just at Toma’s place. We were sitting, remembering old times…”
Andrei narrowed his eyes, gave a crooked smirk, and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, well. At Toma’s place, huh? She doesn’t waste time.”
“Watch your mouth, Andrei,” Maxim snapped, instantly tense.
“No, you should think about who you’re getting mixed up with again,” Andrei shot back. “She got rid of her husband by sending him off to a care facility for disabled people. And now she’s hunting again.”
“What?” Maxim stared. “What are you talking about?”
Andrei’s face darkened.
“You heard me. She married my friend Sergey. Took her time, worked him over, but got what she wanted. He was a good man, Max. A golden man, no exaggeration. She didn’t want children—kept saying family responsibilities weren’t for her. But he put up with everything. He treated her like a queen, gave her everything. She never even worked—why would she, when he made sure she had it all?”
Maxim listened, and the smile slowly disappeared from his face.
“And then what?” he asked quietly.
“And then,” Andrei said with a heavy sigh, “disaster. Sergey got badly injured at work. The doctors said he would never walk again. You know what she did? First she cried and put on a show. Then she quickly packed him off to a nursing home. Out of sight, out of mind. No conscience. No pity. Then she went right back to living her easy life, as if nothing had happened.”
“That can’t be true,” Maxim whispered.
“It can. And it is. We’re neighbors. We all saw it. Hardly anyone in the building even says hello to her anymore. People know exactly who she is.”
Andrei waved a hand and walked off, leaving Maxim standing in the middle of the courtyard as if someone had poured scalding water over him.
The happiness that had filled him only moments before vanished instantly. Inside him there was nothing but emptiness and cold. It was as if he had fallen from the sky straight to the ground.
He began walking away slowly. He crossed the city on foot, his thoughts crashing into one another.
“So that’s Tamara. So that’s the dream of my life.”
And then another image rose before him.
He remembered the terrible year when he himself had been in the hospital. He had fallen badly on a ski trail and injured his spine. The doctors had not hidden the truth: the chances were poor, and he would most likely never walk again.
He had lain there thinking his life was over. Dark thoughts had filled his mind. And all that time Vera had been there.
She never left his side. She sat by his bed day and night, pleaded with doctors, found money for surgery, traveled, begged, persuaded—doing anything she could to save him. And when he gave up, she lifted him. When he refused to do the exercises, she made him, almost by force. She physically supported him, helped him stand, taught him how to walk again.
He had even been angry with her then. Why are you torturing me? Just let me lie here in peace. But she never backed down. She believed he would stand again.
And he did.
He walked again. He worked again. He lived again.
Because of her. Because of her stubborn love.
And if Tamara had been beside him instead?
He tried to imagine her near a hospital bed. He imagined her wrinkling her nose at the smell, grimacing at the burden of having to take care of everything. No—she would not have endured it. She would have sent him away, just as she had sent Sergey away. He would be lying in some institution now, pitiful, alone, forgotten.
Maxim shuddered.
“And I dreamed about her for all these years? I wanted to leave Vera for her? God, what a fool I’ve been…”
He walked through the evening city without seeing the few passersby, the wet storefronts, or the cars. His thoughts crowded together. His whole soul felt turned inside out.
Vera.
The same Vera who greeted him with dinner every day. Who cared for the children, the house, and for him. Yes, sometimes she argued. Sometimes she was stubborn. But were those really faults? Was that enough to make her seem unworthy?
And he—ungrateful, blind—had spent years comparing her to a ghost from the past. To a woman who had turned out to be selfish, empty, and cruel.
His heart clenched. Shame burned through him so strongly he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.
He kept walking through the evening, making no move to catch a bus or wave down a taxi. He wanted to stay on foot, to think, to understand himself. The cold air sobered him.
On the way, he noticed a flower kiosk. An elderly saleswoman stood behind the counter, bored, lazily scrolling through her phone. Maxim stopped suddenly.
He understood that right then, in that very moment, he needed to do something—anything—to show Vera, even a little, how much she meant to him.
“I’ll take that one,” he said firmly, pointing to the biggest bouquet—a lush arrangement of red and white roses.
The woman came to life at once and wrapped the flowers in crisp paper. Maxim took the bouquet in his hands and felt his heart beating differently now—not with false excitement, but with something real, something that had apparently been living inside him all along while he refused to see it.
The key turned in the lock with its familiar scrape. Maxim opened the door—and nearly froze.
The apartment smelled of valerian drops. The kitchen light was burning brightly. Vera rushed toward him.
Her face was swollen from crying, her eyes red, her hands shaking. She clung to him as if she were afraid he would vanish again.
“Where have you been?” she cried out. “I called you over and over! Your phone was off! I didn’t know what to think… I thought something had happened to you…”
Only then did Maxim remember: before going to that meeting with the past, he had switched off his phone so no one would disturb him. And he had never turned it back on.
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, as if he wanted to absorb all her fear into himself.
“Forgive me, Vera. Forgive me, my dear,” he said quickly, stumbling over the words. “It’s my fault. I was thoughtless. I was an idiot. I never want you to cry because of me again.”
She pulled back for a second and looked straight at him. Fresh tears filled her eyes.
“I was so scared, Maxim. I asked the children—they didn’t know where you were. I was about to start calling hospitals…”
“It’s all right. I’m here now. And it will never happen again. Never, do you hear me?”
Then he held out the bouquet.
“This is for you. For all my mistakes. For putting up with me for all these years. For always being here. You are the best wife in the world.”
Vera took the flowers, buried her face in them, and began to cry again—but now more softly, not from hurt, but from relief.
Maxim sat beside her, stroking her shoulder, her hair. And he said the things he had never said before.
“I’m a fool, Vera. A real fool. All these years I was looking for happiness everywhere except where it actually was. And all along, it was here, right beside me. You… you are my home, my strength, my joy. Only now do I understand how lucky I am.”
She sniffled and smiled through her tears.
“What’s happened to you?” she asked quietly. “It’s like you’ve become a different man.”
“I’ve finally opened my eyes,” he answered seriously. “And I promise you this: I will never hurt you again.”
Vera said nothing. She only pressed herself closer to him.
And Maxim felt as if a huge stone had fallen away from his soul. All his dreams about the past dissolved like smoke. None of that had been real. The real thing was here—in this kitchen that smelled faintly of valerian, with this tired, tearful, beloved woman sitting beside him.
This was home.
