Lyuba first appeared at our place in June, just as the old wild rose beside the gate burst into bloom. I had planted it so long ago that it felt like part of another lifetime. If I had known how that acquaintance would end, I probably wouldn’t even have put the kettle on.
I had done almost everything to get our country cottage into shape. Yevgeny worked long shifts away at a factory and helped whenever he happened to have time. Meanwhile, I dug the vegetable beds, hauled heavy loads, and tackled whatever repairs needed doing when there was nobody else to do them. I planted the rose garden, hired people to dig the well, arranged for carpenters, and supervised everything that was built, painted, or repaired.
Yevgeny wasn’t a bad man, generally speaking. Just quiet. Ask him something, and he would mumble an answer. Ask him to do something, and he would do it. But he never volunteered, took the initiative, or noticed when I needed a hand.
I had grown used to that long ago.
Lyuba was slim and fit, with thick, dark hair styled so neatly that she always looked as though she had just stepped out of a salon. She was divorced and lived alone. She said she had bought her cottage “to have somewhere to unwind.”
 
At first, she came over in the evenings to borrow salt. Then she came to chat. Eventually, she stopped needing an excuse and simply dropped by “for tea.” She would settle onto the veranda, sigh, smooth her hair, and begin:
“Oh, I honestly don’t know how you manage everything here. I’m hopeless at anything practical.”
Yevgeny would blush and say nothing.
Back then, I didn’t suspect a thing. A woman living alone was bored and wanted some company over a cup of tea. What was wrong with that? I brewed strong tea with mint from my garden and brought out homemade jam.
Of course, it bothered me a little that she appeared every evening at precisely eight, just when I was about to sit on the veranda with a book. Still, I had always believed that anyone who came into your home deserved a proper welcome.
One day, Klava from the neighboring plot stopped me beside the well. She was a tiny, wiry woman whose voice could carry across three fences.
“Natasha, your husband keeps going over to the new woman’s place while you’re away. He’s fixing her fence. Did you know?”
I laughed and waved it off.
 
“Of course I know. He’s kind. He likes helping people.”
Klava looked at me with such obvious pity that she didn’t even try to hide it. Then she went home.
That evening, while peeling zucchini, I casually asked Yevgeny:
“I hear you’re repairing Lyuba’s fence?”
He blinked several times before reluctantly answering.
“Well, yes. She asked. The boards were completely rotten, so I thought I might as well…”
“Might as well,” I repeated. “And when are you going to fix our porch? I’ve been asking since spring.”
Yevgeny nodded quickly.
“This weekend, Natasha. I’ll definitely do it this weekend.”
Naturally, the weekend came and went without anything happening. Our porch still creaked, while Lyuba’s fence stood straight and sturdy, freshly painted and perfectly neat. Somehow, every time I walked past it, my eyes lingered.
Once, while washing his shirts, I noticed that the collars smelled different. It wasn’t our detergent, the cottage, tobacco, or wood shavings.
Something clicked in my mind, but I didn’t make a scene.
 
That evening, I simply told him:
“If you want to help her, then help her. But do it openly. Don’t go behind my back.”
Yevgeny nodded, blinked, and assured me he wouldn’t visit the neighbor again.
I believed him.
Or rather, I desperately wanted to.
Then, after dinner, while I was washing the dishes, I heard Klava’s children shouting from beyond the fence:
“Uncle Zhenya! Uncle Zhenya, you’re going to Aunt Lyuba’s again!”
What was I supposed to think after that?
The following evening, Lyuba came over once more, this time carrying a jar of her homemade cherry jam. She had barely closed the door before Yevgeny started fussing over her, fetching cups and pouring her tea.
A couple of weeks later, I drove into town to buy fertilizer. Yevgeny stayed at the cottage.
In the car’s glove compartment, I happened to find receipts from a hardware store: timber, paint, door hinges, screws. None of the purchases had cost a fortune on its own, but there were plenty of receipts. The one on top was dated early summer.
 
Without a word, I put them back.
Our shared money.
The money on the card where my wages as a train attendant and his factory earnings were deposited. I cut corners wherever I could and thought carefully about every purchase, while he was buying boards, paint, and hinges for Lyuba.
That evening, I opened my husband’s wallet, which was lying on the bedside table as usual, took out the bank card, and slipped it into my bag.
Yevgeny noticed almost immediately. He searched through his wallet, then looked at me. I was sitting at the table peeling apples, keeping my eyes lowered.
“Have you seen the card?” he muttered.
“I have it,” I answered.
He stared at me, sighed, and went to the cupboard. Behind a stack of towels, he kept a secret stash of cash. I had known about it for years, but for the first time, I wondered how much of it he had already spent on someone else’s property.
That same evening, my old friend Rimma called. We had worked together on the same train route for years. We chatted about our gardens, prices, and our health. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said:
“Remember Svetka from our train? Her husband left her for another woman. He was always going over to help that woman, too. Now they live together. Svetka’s getting ready to divide up their property.”
 
I stayed silent so long that Rimma asked:
“Natasha? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I said. “The connection’s just bad.”
After hanging up, I stood by the window for a long time.
Across the way, the lights were on at Lyuba’s place.
I turned away and went to make the bed.
Our daughter, Vera, was supposed to visit the following week. She lived and worked in another city. We didn’t speak on the phone very often, so she knew nothing about her father’s visits to the neighbor.
While getting ready for her arrival, I happened to notice my husband’s phone. It was charging on the kitchen windowsill, its screen facing upward. I had walked past it a hundred times before, but then the screen lit up, and for some reason, I looked.
“I miss you. Come over.”
The sender was saved as “L.”
No surname.
No photograph.
Just a letter.
I picked up the phone and began reading.
 
The messages went all the way back to spring.
Lyuba had written:
“I’m waiting for you.”
“Bring some wine. Our favorite.”
Yevgeny’s replies were brief: a smiling face, “Soon,” or “I’ll come tonight.”
There wasn’t a single “I love you” in the conversation, but somehow that made it hurt even more. As though he didn’t need to bother with words because everything between them was already understood.
Then I saw a photograph.
Yevgeny and Lyuba were sitting on our garden bench, drinking from our glasses. Not just any glasses, either: my mother’s crystal ones, which I saved for special occasions.
Lyuba was smiling, nestled against his shoulder.
Behind them stood my rose garden.
 
I put the phone down.
Then I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. There, inside a drawer, I found an unfamiliar key.
A key to Lyuba’s house.
Of course.
I took screenshots of all the messages, slipped the key into my pocket, and started cooking.
Until my daughter arrived, I said nothing about what I had discovered. I boiled, baked, cleaned, and laid the table.
That evening, when the guests gathered—including Lyuba, who seemed to be everywhere—I realized it was now or never.
The conversation around the table was perfectly ordinary: the harvest, the weather, the journey, rising prices, neighborhood gossip.
Once the tea had been poured, I stood up.
“Vera,” I began, “there’s something I want to show you.”
I took my phone from my pocket, opened the photo gallery, and began reading aloud.
“‘I miss you. Come over.’ That one’s recent. And here’s one from May: ‘I’m waiting for you tonight. Bring some wine.’ And this is a photograph of them on our bench. Look.”
 
Vera glanced at the picture, then looked up at me. Her expression changed.
Yevgeny sat motionless. At first, his fingers dug into the fabric of his trousers at his knees. Then they slowly loosened. He was about to speak, but I got there first.
“The cottage belongs to me. And you,” I said, looking at my husband, “can go and stay with your Lyuba. Here’s the key.”
I took the key from my pocket and placed it on the table in front of him.
“Take it. We’ll divide the apartment and everything else through the courts.”
Yevgeny turned deep red, but he said nothing.
Lyuba sprang to her feet. Her thick, dark hair swung around her face, and suddenly, she no longer seemed beautiful to me. She was simply a woman who looked frightened.
“Natalya, you’ve misunderstood everything…”
“No,” I interrupted. “I understand perfectly.”
 
Vera stood up, too.
“Mom!” she cried. “Why? Why would you do this in front of everyone?”
I looked at my daughter.
She stood gripping the edge of the table, tears of anger gathering in her eyes.
“This is your own fault,” she said. “You’ve nagged him for years. All you care about is the cottage, the vegetable beds, the fences, the roses. He’s a person, too!”
I didn’t answer.
I think that was what hurt the most.
More than the messages.
More than the photograph on our bench.
More than finding Lyuba’s key in my kitchen drawer.
Yevgeny left two days after that dinner.
He didn’t argue.
He didn’t ask for forgiveness.
 
He didn’t explain himself.
He simply walked through the gate and went to Lyuba’s cottage nearby.
Now they live there, just across the road. I see them in the mornings, and every time, I turn away. As it turns out, some things are impossible to get used to.
Nobody in the cottage community invites Lyuba over for tea anymore. Klava has stopped greeting her. The other neighbors nod when they pass, but they don’t stop to talk.
Yevgeny hardly speaks to anyone, either. He squints and walks past, behaving as though none of it has anything to do with him.
Vera stays in touch with her father. Sometimes, she spends weekends with him and Lyuba. She visits me, too, but never for very long.
And I keep living.
I tie up my roses.
I make jam just for myself.
I look after my garden, my house, and my own affairs.
And I have no regrets.