— Could it be that your Lena is now planning to sleep with us? — I asked sarcastically.
— She isn’t even worthy of your attention! Or have you really succumbed to her cozy evenings and culinary masterpieces? I cook no worse!
I had always considered myself above jealousy. But it turned out that was a misconception.
At forty, I entered into a second marriage. The first one lasted five years but ended tragically: my husband, who once seemed a reliable rock, began abusing alcohol and eventually turned to physical violence. I didn’t wait for the situation to worsen—I left him without hesitation, practically fleeing.
I spent the next ten years alone. Men tried to win my attention, but I was cautious, avoiding hasty steps. Then he appeared—attentive, caring, warm. We dated for over a year before he proposed to me. Saying “yes” came easily.
He was almost perfect. Almost. He had a “best friend.” A childhood friend who seemed to take her presence in our lives for granted. She intruded on our time together as if she had every right to do so.
I tried to discuss it with my husband:
— Listen, your Lena is going too far. Don’t you notice how she’s gradually intruding into our life?
He just waved it off:
— Anya, stop it. Lena and I have known each other since childhood. We’re like brother and sister. There has never been and never will be anything between us. To me, she’s still that little kid with messy hair and scrapes on her knees.
I could only sigh, feeling irritation boil inside me. Why doesn’t he understand how much this hurts me?
A friend from work suggested a radical solution:
— Just say it plainly: either you or her. Let’s see what choice he makes.
But I didn’t want to play such games. I didn’t want to appear hysterical, uncontrolled.
Meanwhile, Lena was becoming increasingly uninhibited. She could just show up without warning, as if she didn’t even entertain the thought that we might have our own plans.
What especially infuriated me were her constant stories about the past—tales from their shared childhood and youth. As if she deliberately wanted to emphasize that she knew him better than I did, that she had been part of his life long before I arrived, and that her place by his side was indisputable.
The climax came one evening.
My husband unexpectedly stayed late at work. His calls went unanswered, and at one point the phone stopped working entirely. This was strange for a man who always kept me informed about his affairs.
I paced around the apartment, checking my phone every few minutes, imagining the worst scenarios.
When he finally returned—it was around midnight. And he wasn’t alone. Lena had come with him.
They chatted cheerfully, oblivious to my tension. I stood in the hallway, watching the scene. My husband tossed off his jacket, turned to me, but my gaze was fixed on his guest.
— Lena, it’s late. You should go home, — I said coldly.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, about to retort, but my husband, noticing the look on my face, softly said:
— Yes, Lena, you really should go. See you later.
She scowled in displeasure but obeyed. Reluctantly, she put on her shoes, threw a brief “bye,” and left.
As soon as the door closed, I turned to my husband:
— Do you have any idea how disrespectful that was?
— What are you talking about? — he looked at me in bewilderment.
— That you disappeared for the entire evening, ignored my calls, and then just showed up at home accompanied by your “best friend.”
— She picked me up at work, and we decided to go to the movies, — he explained.
— To the movies?! — I could hardly believe my ears. — Didn’t you even think to warn me?
— I just forgot, — he shrugged. — You don’t like thrillers, so I decided there was no point in disturbing you.
— Of course, how could I ever compare to her, — I snapped sarcastically.
We argued deep into the night. We didn’t speak for two days. Eventually, we reconciled, but the sour aftertaste remained.
A few weeks later, on my husband’s birthday, things took another turn. His parents lived in another city, and mine had gone abroad for vacation. We decided to celebrate the occasion as a couple, creating a quiet and intimate atmosphere.
— Just make sure to warn Lena right away that she’s not part of our plans today, — I said in advance.
To my surprise, my husband easily agreed:
— Of course, I’ve already informed her. She was upset, but promised not to show up.
For some reason, his calm tone made me uneasy.
On his birthday, I arranged to leave work early. I wanted to make the evening special: I ordered his favorite sushi, prepared my signature salad that always earned his approval. The table was set with all the possible elegance. Everything had to be perfect.
When he returned home, we sat down, raised our glasses. I felt happy—finally, some long-awaited time for just the two of us, without extra eyes.
And then… a knock at the door.
I froze. My heart clenched with a sense of foreboding. My husband went to answer the door, and I already knew who was there.
At the doorstep, of course, stood Lena. But she wasn’t alone. She had some young man with her, someone we had never seen before. She looked me over from head to toe with a slight smirk and said:
— No need to get so worked up right away! Can I really spoil your romantic atmosphere? See, I even came with a date!
I gritted my teeth. Kicking them out the door would have made me appear hysterical. I had to invite them in.
For me, the celebration was over. All the emotions evaporated, the romance dissolved. I sat there, mechanically shifting food around on my plate, barely controlling my irritation.
Later that night, while clearing the table, I heard voices in the hallway—my husband and Lena.
I don’t know how their conversation started, but every word I overheard pierced me to the core.
— You know I’ve dreamed of you since childhood, — her voice was almost a whisper, yet every word reached me. — I need you. I cannot exist without you!
I froze, holding my breath, waiting for his reply.
— Lena, this wine is loosening your tongue, — my husband said wearily. — We’re just friends. And you know that very well. I love my wife.
Silence. And then Lena’s sharp, angry whisper:
— That man isn’t worthy of you! Or have you really given in to her culinary skills and coziness? I cook no worse!
I squeezed my glass so hard that it nearly cracked. One single question flashed through my mind: And him? How would he react next?
I couldn’t take it any longer.
Without thinking, I stepped forward and forcefully slammed the bathroom door where they were. In the ensuing silence, the air seemed to grow heavier.
Before they could recover, I silently grabbed Lena by the collar of her blouse, spun her sharply toward the exit, and shoved her out into the hallway. Her indignant cry was drowned out by the sound of the door slamming. Her purse and shoes flew after her.
A heavy silence settled in the hallway.
My husband stood, shocked, watching the scene as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The young man Lena had brought with her turned noticeably pale, avoided our gaze, muttered something indistinctly, and quickly disappeared out the door.
I turned to my husband. My voice was steady, but not a trace of leniency remained:
— Make your choice. Either me or her. And make sure that this woman is never in our home again.
My husband was silent.
I looked at him, realizing that perhaps he might continue to maintain a connection with her. Perhaps somewhere beyond our life together. But here, in my space, in my home, there would be no more room for her.”