I figured out why Oleg had insisted on inviting his new assistant to our family banquet eleven days before the celebration.
To this day, he sincerely believes that I simply lost my mind because of female jealousy. To be perfectly honest, I myself had ignored the obvious for far too long. It was much easier for me to methodically take care of his everyday needs, nod pleasantly, and believe that thirty-two years of lawful marriage were a solid, indestructible foundation. I am ashamed to admit it, but I was terrified of his long, tedious lectures about how hopelessly out of touch with life I had become.
“Katya, you still haven’t picked up my gray suit from the dry cleaner?” Oleg’s irritated voice came from the hallway.
I sighed heavily.
“I’ll pick it up this afternoon,” I replied calmly, wiping the kitchen counter with a dry waffle-weave towel. “Sorry, I’ve just been busy with the grocery lists.”
“Busy, she says.”
Oleg pronounced every word with the intonation of a strict schoolteacher. His anniversary celebration was coming up in a week. Sixty years old—a prestigious event. He kept repeating that all his key business partners would be there.
“Svetochka has already planned the entire schedule for the evening, approved the menu with the restaurant chef, and supervised the seating arrangements,” my husband continued scolding me. “And you can’t even manage one tiny, insignificant errand.”
I walked into the hallway, still holding the towel.
Oleg stood in front of the large full-length mirror. He was carefully sucking in his stomach and adjusting the stiff collar of a new shirt that was obviously too tight. Over the past year, he had become almost obsessive about his appearance. He had signed up for the most expensive gym in the city, even though he went there at most once a month. He had completely changed his barber. He had started buying blatantly youthful shirts that looked ridiculous stretched tightly across his expanding waistline.
“Oleg, why is Sveta coming to our family dinner?” I asked directly, looking at his self-satisfied reflection. “It’s supposed to be just close relatives and old friends.”
He stopped adjusting his collar.
“Because she’s the main coordinator of the evening. She needs to stay close to me so that everything goes perfectly.”
He turned toward me.
“Don’t argue, Katya. It will be more convenient for everyone.”
I did not argue. I turned on my heel and silently went back to the kitchen.
Over the next few days, our shared home finally stopped feeling like mine. The familiar space was brazenly invaded by the short, sharp chimes of incoming messages on his phone. Ding-ding. From early morning until late at night.
That irritating sound filled our apartment, aggressively pushing aside the familiar peace of home.
He now took his phone with him even into the bathroom. Every time he heard that sound, Oleg’s expression changed instantly. He straightened himself up, and a foolish, condescending half-smile appeared on his lips. He typed replies quickly and enthusiastically with both thumbs, noticing nothing around him.
He answered my simple household questions in monosyllables. Whenever I rarely asked him to help organize something around the house, he reacted with open, prickly irritation.
The day before the weekend, I pulled our old Soviet polished folding table out from behind the tall wardrobe in the bedroom.
The very same one—extremely heavy, with stiff, stubborn hinges. We had bought it back in 1989. We had transported it across the entire city on the roof of a neighbor’s car, carefully tying it down with ropes.
It took quite a bit of effort.
For a long time, I struggled to unfold the heavy wooden panels and pull out the creaking support legs. I planned to spread stacks of old family photo albums across the wide table. I wanted to choose the best pictures for a celebratory slideshow the children had asked us to prepare. I laid out black-and-white photographs in which we were young, tired, but genuinely smiling.
Oleg walked past without even offering to help me unfold the heavy wooden table.
The next morning, we had breakfast in the kitchen.
I had gotten up early and made a fluffy omelet with fresh tomatoes. Oleg sat opposite me, as usual scrolling through the colorful screen of his smartphone. I put a hot portion on my plate and poured myself strong sweet tea.
Without looking up from his phone, Oleg suddenly reached his fork across the wide table.
He speared a large piece of omelet directly from my plate and, without looking, put it into his mouth. He chewed slowly. Then his face twisted in disgust. He spat the chewed, wet lump with a tough piece of red tomato skin back onto his fork.
And then he simply shook the mess onto the edge of my clean plate.
“The tomatoes taste like plastic,” he muttered irritably, continuing to swipe endlessly across the screen.
I froze.
I stared at that wet, crushed lump on the white porcelain, and my appetite disappeared instantly.
Silently, I pushed my chair back. I picked up my plate and carefully dumped everything into the trash. My husband did not even notice.
That afternoon, I methodically gathered his clothes for the dry cleaner.
That expensive gray suit he planned to wear during the formal part of the celebration. Out of long-standing domestic habit, I carefully checked the pockets before sending it off. The inside pocket of the heavy jacket was bulging suspiciously. I slipped my hand inside.
My fingers touched a thick white envelope bearing the bright blue logo of a prestigious private medical center.
I had never searched through his personal belongings in my life.
But recently Oleg had often complained about severe fatigue, and the envelope looked far too official. For a moment, concern about his health outweighed my natural sense of tact. I carefully opened the paper flap and pulled out a thick sheet of paper folded in half.
It was an official report from a specialist.
My eyes quickly moved across the lines. Patient: Oleg Nikolaevich. Age: sixty. Diagnosis.
I reread the short paragraph three times to make absolutely sure I had not imagined it.
“Moderate age-related urinary incontinence caused by significant weakening of the pelvic floor muscles. Acute prolapsed hemorrhoid, stage three. Recommendation: scheduled surgical intervention. Continuous use of high-absorbency male urological pads is strongly recommended to prevent daily leakage.”
I stood in the middle of our bright bedroom holding the paper in my hands.
Images flashed vividly through my mind: his new youthful shirts. His arrogant, appraising looks. His cutting irritation at my “old-lady” dresses. His endless messages with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.
I carefully folded the paper along the existing crease.
I placed it in my formal leather handbag. Then I returned the empty white envelope neatly to the inside pocket of his gray jacket.
The banquet was being held in a spacious hall of an upscale restaurant in the very center of the city.
About forty people had gathered there. Relatives, old family friends, several important business partners. The wide tables were overflowing with exquisite food, while waiters in white shirts silently replaced empty plates. The melodic clinking of crystal glasses filled with cranberry juice and ice-cold mineral water drifted through the hall.
Svetochka was sitting on Oleg’s right.
She was wearing a tight, bright fuchsia dress with completely bare shoulders. She laughed very loudly, constantly touched the sleeve of Oleg’s jacket, and kept leaning close to whisper something confidentially into his ear. He was practically glowing with self-satisfaction.
I sat on his left.
I was wearing my conservative dark-blue suit. Calmly and deliberately, I ate my vegetable salad, watching everything as though from the outside.
Around the middle of the lavish evening, Oleg rose heavily from his seat.
The guests politely put down their cutlery. He tapped a fork against the rim of his glass of mineral water to attract everyone’s attention. Then he began speaking loudly, with the rehearsed intonation of an experienced public speaker.
For a very long time, he listed his many achievements.
He talked about how difficult it had been to build a successful business from nothing. How important it was to have a strong masculine character and never surrender in the face of life’s difficulties. He spoke about his grand plans for the next ten years.
Then he smoothly turned toward his young assistant.
“You know, dear friends,” his voice became velvety and patronizing, “behind every truly successful project there is always a loyal team. And tonight I want to raise this glass to my absolutely irreplaceable Svetochka.”
He gave the girl a charming smile.
“If it weren’t for her boundless youthful energy and her incredibly fresh outlook on life, this wonderful celebration simply would not have happened. She is the true engine of my business. A breath of fresh air. Without her, I would simply wither away in dull routine.”
He paused theatrically for a long moment and glanced condescendingly in my direction.
“Katya, of course, has provided me with a reliable, stable home life. Freshly ironed clean shirts on time, delicious hot dinners. That is important too, in its own way. But Svetochka… she has given me completely new wings. To you, my dear!”
The guests around the long table shifted awkwardly in their soft chairs.
The wife of his oldest business partner quickly lowered her eyes and suddenly became extremely absorbed in picking at the sliced fish on her plate with a fork. Sasha, Oleg’s school friend, coughed loudly and unnaturally, turning toward the large window.
I carefully placed my cloth napkin on the table.
With slender fingers, I smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the snow-white tablecloth. Then I rose from my chair.
My movements were extremely precise and completely unhurried. I walked directly up to Oleg and gently took the microphone from his left hand. He raised his thick eyebrows questioningly but kept the condescending smile on his flushed face. Apparently, he naively assumed that I was about to obediently deliver the expected words of gratitude from a wife.
I pulled a white sheet of paper, folded into quarters, from my handbag. I unfolded it.
“Oleg Nikolaevich gave a remarkable speech,” I said in a completely steady, calm voice. “He became so carried away by soaring on his new wings that he completely forgot about earthly matters.”
I looked my husband directly in the eyes.
“And at our respectable age, health is the most important thing, isn’t it?”
Oleg frowned in confusion. Svetochka stopped smiling foolishly as well.
“Oleg Nikolaevich became so carried away by soaring on his new wings that he completely forgot about earthly matters,” I repeated loudly enough for the farthest tables to hear. “And since I am the person responsible for providing his reliable domestic life, I simply have to publicly pass these extremely important instructions on to his new young engine.”
I brought the heavy microphone slightly closer to my lips.
Then, with the astonishingly clear diction of a lecturer, I read the printed text from the page.
“Patient: Oleg Nikolaevich. Age: sixty. Diagnosis: moderate age-related urinary incontinence. Acute prolapsed hemorrhoid, stage three.”
I made a tiny, carefully measured pause.
Even the faint clinking of metal forks stopped in the large hall. The only sound was the monotonous hum of the air-conditioning beneath the high ceiling.
“Recommendations from the attending physician,” I continued in the same even, emotionless tone. “Scheduled surgical intervention. Continuous use of high-absorbency male urological pads is strongly recommended in order to avoid embarrassing daily leakage.”
I slowly lowered the microphone.
Then I turned toward the assistant, whose face had rapidly gone pale.
“Svetochka, as the chief coordinator, please make sure this is taken care of. Oleg Nikolaevich absolutely must not sit on soft surfaces for too long at the moment. And please make sure he changes his absorbent pads on time. Energy is all well and good, but basic hygiene still has to be maintained.”
Oleg stood completely motionless.
His round face rapidly became covered in uneven crimson blotches from his thick neck all the way to the top of his head. He desperately opened and closed his mouth like a fish thrown onto the shore, but not a single sound came out. Svetochka pressed herself against the tall back of her chair, staring at her boss in genuine horror.
I placed the folded medical report directly onto his empty plate.
I set the switched-off microphone on the table, picked up my handbag from the back of my chair, and walked unhurriedly toward the exit of the banquet hall. Not one guest said a word. No one even tried to stop me.
I stepped outside.
The evening city air felt cool and astonishingly light. I called a taxi and calmly went home.
Our apartment felt very cozy.
I did not collapse into tears. I did not frantically swallow sedative drops. I simply walked through the familiar rooms, feeling like the mistress of my own home.
I opened the large built-in wardrobe in the hallway.
From the top shelf, I pulled down his two massive wheeled suitcases. I opened the wardrobe doors and methodically, without unnecessary fuss, tossed in his tight youthful shirts, designer jackets, and expensive Italian shoes. Then I sharply pulled the stiff zippers closed.
I placed both heavy suitcases outside the front door, directly on the landing.
Then I walked confidently into the bathroom. I gathered all his expensive anti-aging creams, hair-growth serums, and buzzing electric toothbrush into a large garbage bag. The bag immediately went down the garbage chute.
I returned to the kitchen.
I poured hot black tea into my favorite cup. I sat down at that same old folding table, now fully opened. There were no more sharp mobile-phone chimes in the apartment, no arrogant commanding voice, no dry, demanding cough.
There was only the steady, soothing hum of cars drifting in through the open window.
I took a small sip.
The tea tasted unbelievably good.
Would you have been able to stay silent just to preserve the image of a perfect family?