For several days now, Inga had been unable to find peace. She had even begun to wonder whether she had started all of this for nothing. Her husband behaved calmly, as if there was absolutely nothing to accuse him of, although Inga knew for certain that he was seeing another woman — and with great enthusiasm.
She had wanted to talk to him, to finally put everything in its place, but she never managed to. One day Igor came home with a luxurious bouquet, even though he had never brought her flowers before and used to say that buying them was the same as throwing money into the wind. Another time he invited Inga to a café — and not a cheap one either.
The worst part was that she knew where the money came from. He was taking it from his lover. Perhaps that was why he saw no reason to save it; after all, he had not earned it himself.
Her thoughts tangled, circled, and scattered again. Inga thought that if he was inviting her — his wife — and not the woman whose money was paying for all those banquets, then maybe he still loved her. Maybe he wanted to save their family, and she had been thinking too badly of him.
No, she did not want to reveal all her cards too soon. She decided to see it through to the end, to find out for certain what he wanted and what decision he would make. And although it was terribly difficult, she kept convincing herself: this was better. This was necessary. This was the right thing to do.
Inga had married Igor two years earlier. At first, he seemed caring, open-hearted, and kind. But after the wedding, everything somehow began to revolve around money. He started saving every penny and began saying that it might be a good idea to give him a share in Inga’s apartment. After all, he was her husband, and that way she would have no temptation to leave him.
That was when the thought first crept into her mind that perhaps he had married her for calculation. She was a few years older than him, her appearance was ordinary, and her figure was far from model-like. But he had looked at her with such adoration, had spoken so beautifully about how she had conquered his heart, that Inga believed him.
Now she was frightened by the thought that he had only been playing a role for the sake of material benefits. Igor was handsome — the kind of man people turned to look at — but he had nothing to his name. He had grown up in a village; his parents owned nothing except an old house and a cow. Perhaps he had come to the city in search of a beautiful life, and Inga could give him that life.
She had a good job. Her grandmother had left her an apartment in the city center. A couple of years earlier, she had bought herself a car from the dealership, paying in cash. Her parents had taken care of her too — when she came of age, they gave her a package of shares, which now brought her a good passive income.
Of course, Inga had not told Igor everything. She was not used to boasting. Besides, there had never been a conversation about who owned the apartment he first came to visit her in and later moved into after they registered their marriage.
So when he started talking about getting a share in her own apartment, she did not lose her composure.
“Darling, this apartment belongs to my father,” she said. “He was planning to rent it out during retirement. We need to think about our own home. I told you a long time ago that we should buy an apartment, but you kept ignoring it.”
Yes, Inga was not lying. From the very beginning, she had spoken about buying a new place. But she had wanted, first of all, for Igor to make an effort and find a good job. Secondly, she had planned to create some kind of safety cushion for their future children, and that would take years. Thirdly, she wanted them to have something together with Igor.
And now she looked at him confidently and said something she could not even have imagined saying the day before. Why not? Since he had dared to ask for such a thing, she was not going to stay silent either.
“So… what do you mean, the apartment isn’t yours?” Igor even pulled nervously at the collar of his sweater after hearing the news. “You said you were planning to buy property for our future children. I was sure this apartment belonged to you.”
“Oh, really?” Inga did not want to back down. “Or maybe you married me exactly because of the apartment and the comfortable life?”
“No!” Igor immediately began defending himself. “It’s just… well… this is unexpected. I married you for love. How can you even say that?”
“Seriously?” Inga narrowed her eyes and asked him directly. “And if tomorrow you met another woman with her own apartment and every comfort imaginable, would you run away from me?”
“Of course not. I love you. We’ll achieve everything together. Stop even thinking about that.”
But Inga could not stop. The thought that she was being used as a temporary shelter gave her no peace. Especially now, when for almost two months Igor had been seeing another woman named Malvina, and Inga knew his every step, every word he said.
He admired Malvina, looked at her with undisguised adoration, and had even mentioned a couple of times that it was a pity he had married so early. He knew that Malvina had her own business, a mansion in a wealthy district, and useful connections. Yet he still came home to Inga confidently, as if he had no intention of leaving her and this fleeting affair would soon be over.
But one evening, when Malvina casually said to Igor that she would like to share everything she had with him, he seemed to spread wings behind his back.
That evening, Inga waited for his return with a special kind of tension. Time dragged on slowly, almost deliberately. Every minute seemed longer than the one before. She would go to the window and peer into the dark courtyard, then return to the kitchen and mechanically straighten the perfectly arranged dishes.
She was afraid. Afraid to hear the truth. Afraid of the final answer. Afraid of that very point after which nothing could be brought back. But at the same time, she was tired of living in uncertainty. Tired of guessing, imagining things, catching his glances and searching for meaning in them.
She wanted clarity. Even if it was bitter.
When the key finally turned in the lock, her heart tightened treacherously. For a second, she even froze, unable to turn around.
Igor came in as if nothing had happened. Calm, confident, familiar. He took off his shoes, hung up his jacket — everything just as usual. Not a shadow of worry. Not the slightest hint of inner struggle.
Inga studied his face carefully, trying to catch at least something — doubt, joy, anxiety. But his expression was unreadable.
Silently, she invited him to the table. She had prepared a special dinner, almost festive. Not because she wanted to please him. No. Rather, because she knew this was their last evening together. And for some reason, she wanted it to be beautiful, dignified. So that it would not feel like a dirty, rushed ending.
Igor ate with appetite, even with pleasure. Several times he nodded approvingly after trying one dish, then another.
“Delicious,” he said, pushing his plate aside. “You really are a wonderful homemaker. Golden hands.”
He smiled easily, warmly, and that ordinary, familiar praise suddenly made Inga feel especially empty inside. As if all of this no longer belonged to them.
A short pause followed. The kind of pause in which the most important words are usually born. Igor leaned back in his chair, as if gathering his thoughts, but in truth, he looked like a man who had already decided everything for himself.
Then he said it so casually, as if he were speaking about something insignificant:
“Inga… I’m leaving you. For someone young, rich, and beautiful.”
No drama. No tension. No attempt to soften the blow. Just a statement of fact.
Inga slowly raised her eyes to him. And then… she smirked. As if she had heard exactly what she had been preparing herself for all along.
She did not say anything. Not “why,” not “how could you.” Words were unnecessary here.
She simply stood up, walked into the hallway, calmly put on her coat, and took her bag. Already at the door, without turning around, she said in an even voice:
“Pack your things. And leave… as soon as possible. Before I come back.”
It was chilly outside. The wind lightly tousled her hair, but she did not notice it at all. Inga walked forward without thinking about the road, without choosing a direction. She simply walked.
And with every step, something inside her became calmer. The thoughts that had recently been chaotic and painful suddenly began to line up into a clear, cold order.
She remembered everything. His words, his glances, his cautious questions about the apartment. And she understood: she had not been wrong. She had done everything correctly.
Yes, it had been cruel. Yes, it had been risky. But otherwise she would never have learned the truth.
She imagined Igor now, hurriedly gathering his things and rushing to that very “Malvina.” With a light heart, with the feeling of victory. With anticipation of a new, beautiful, wealthy life. How he would get out of the car… walk up the stairs… press the doorbell…
And how no one would open.
Because Malvina did not exist. There was no rich heiress, no successful businesswoman, no luxurious house, no promised life.
There was only an actress. A woman Inga had found and asked to play a role. Convincingly, brightly, flawlessly. So convincingly that Igor would have no doubts left.
And the name — Malvina — had also been made up. Beautiful. Fairytale-like. A lure.
And he had taken the bait.
Easily. Without hesitation.
He had chosen not love, not loyalty, not their shared life, but the illusion of wealth.
Inga stopped and took a deep breath.
“Well then…” she thought.
Let him stay now with his broken dreams. He had come to the city for an easy life? For someone else’s money? For ready-made happiness? Then he would have to start from zero. On his own.
And she… she would never again allow anyone to use her.
Perhaps now she would truly be able to recognize men like him from a mile away.
Lost in those joyless thoughts, time passed unnoticed. When Inga returned home, the entrance hall of the building greeted her with its usual silence. Everything was the same as always — the same walls, the same smell, the same light from the lamp on the landing.
But inside, she felt as though she were entering an entirely different life.
Opening the door, Inga froze for a moment on the threshold. The apartment looked different somehow. Not because anything had changed dramatically. No. It was simply that his presence was no longer there. The presence she had grown so used to, even when it irritated or hurt her.
She slowly walked inside. First, into the bedroom. The wardrobe door was wide open, as if Igor had packed in a hurry, without thinking about order or about what he was leaving behind. A forgotten T-shirt lay on the shelf; his belt was on the chair, apparently overlooked.
Inga silently approached, carefully closed the wardrobe, and ran her hand over the smooth surface of the door, as if placing a final period.
Then she went to the kitchen. Their dishes from dinner were still there. Two glasses, two plates. A reminder that only a few hours earlier, they had sat here as a family.
She cleaned everything slowly, without rushing. Not because it mattered, but because it helped her not to think.
In the hallway, she found a few more of his things — small items: a charger, old gloves. She gathered everything into a bag without even looking closely, then went outside and threw it into the trash bin without hesitation.
When she returned to the apartment, Inga closed the door behind her and turned the key. She went into the room, sank into an armchair, and sat motionless for a long time, staring at one spot.
A new life was beginning. Strange, unfamiliar, a little frightening. But it was her own.
She would file for divorce, and little by little, everything would fall into place. The evenings would become quiet. She would come back to an empty apartment, turn on the light, make tea, and perhaps at first she would feel lonely… and then she would get used to it.
On weekends, she would visit her parents at the dacha. Everything there was simple, clear, and real. There, she was loved not for her apartment, not for her money, not for convenience.
Sometimes she would start meeting her friends again. Sitting in cafés, laughing, talking about life, sharing insignificant little episodes.
And maybe… someday… she would meet her man. Not perfect. Not fairytale-like. But real. A man who would not count her possessions, measure himself against her life, or look for profit. A man who would simply be there.
And who would be able to share not money — no, that had never mattered to her — but warmth, calmness, sincerity. The things that cannot be bought.
Inga took a deep breath and suddenly realized that she no longer wanted to cry.
Some time passed like that. She did not even notice how much. An hour? Two? More?
The silence of the apartment was suddenly cut by the doorbell.
Inga flinched. She went to the door and opened it slowly.
Igor stood on the threshold.
But he was no longer the confident, calm man who had left several hours earlier. He looked lost. His shoulders were lowered, his gaze had gone dim, and in his eyes there was anxiety and some almost childish helplessness.
“Inga…” he began, and his voice sounded unusually quiet. “Forgive me. I… I was joking.”
She looked at him silently.
“There was no other woman,” he added quickly. “I don’t know what came over me… honestly. It was some kind of stupidity…”
But Inga did not move.
“You’re right,” she said calmly. “There was no other woman.”
Hope flashed in his eyes, but Inga tilted her head slightly and added:
“It’s just that Malvina… somehow strangely disappeared.”
He frowned. At first, confusion appeared on his face, then anxiety. His eyes darted around as if he were trying to gather together scattered pieces of thought, trying to guess what she meant, but he could not.
And in that moment, Inga became completely certain: he truly had understood nothing. Not then. Not now.
She no longer wanted to explain anything. She saw no point.
Without another word, she closed the door right in front of him.
The lock clicked, and that sound rang out to her like a final full stop.
Inga leaned her back against the door and closed her eyes for a second.
“Tomorrow I need to change the locks,” she thought calmly.
And suddenly she felt a strange relief. As if something heavy, something that had been pressing down on her for a long time, had finally let go.
She felt neither gloating nor pain. Only clarity.
It had simply been a bitter experience.
And she truly hoped that nothing like it would ever happen in her life again.
