Christina knocked on the familiar door on the third floor. The doorbell had long been broken, but her mother-in-law, Anna Petrovna, was always alert to knocks—she said that sounds carried especially well in their old building. Indeed, within a minute, shuffling footsteps could be heard.
“Kristinushka! What brings you here?” Anna Petrovna greeted her warmly, but a flicker of anxiety flashed in her eyes.
“I ran out of salt at just the wrong moment, and I’d already started the dough,” Christina stepped over the threshold, automatically taking off her shoes.
Christina and her husband, Sergey, lived one floor above. Anna Petrovna had insisted years ago that the young couple buy an apartment as close to her own as possible: the woman wanted to be as involved as possible in the lives of her son and daughter-in-law.
“Come to the kitchen, I’ll find some,” the mother-in-law hurried ahead, while Christina, who had been here hundreds of times, automatically noted some minor changes in the apartment: a new vase on the dresser, a moved chair, a stack of fresh magazines.
In the kitchen, Anna Petrovna started rummaging through the cabinets, muttering about how she had just bought salt herself. Christina sat on a stool, examining the kitchen she knew in every detail, where they had often had tea with pies. Her gaze wandered absent-mindedly across the shelves until it landed on something unusual.
In the corner, behind a jar of dried basil, the screen of a phone dimly glowed. Christina blinked, looking closer. The phone was the exact same model as her husband Sergey’s—cheap, but practical smartphone in a black case. But Sergey’s phone was always with him; she had never seen him leave it at his mother’s.
“Here it is!” Anna Petrovna exclaimed triumphantly, holding out a packet of salt, but paused upon noticing her daughter-in-law’s gaze.
Christina slowly stood and approached the shelf. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the phone. There was no doubt—it was Sergey’s second phone, whose existence she hadn’t even suspected.
“Anna Petrovna,” Christina said quietly, “what is this?”
The mother-in-law paled and sat down. “Kristinochka, dear… I shouldn’t have… Sergey asked me not to tell…”
Christina unlocked the screen—the password was the same as on her husband’s main phone: their wedding date. The first thing she saw were dozens of unread messages from someone named “Masha R.” The last one was sent that morning: “Honey, I miss you so much. When will we see each other?”
Her ears rang. Christina stared at the screen, but the letters blurred before her eyes. Five years of marriage, a joint mortgage, plans to have a child next year—all suddenly seemed unstable, unreal.
“How long?” was all she managed to say.
“Three months,” Anna Petrovna whispered. “I found out by accident. He would come, leave the phone here… He said it was nothing serious, that it would soon be over. I begged him to confess to you, but he…”
Christina raised her hand, stopping the flow of excuses. Something inside her snapped, but with the pain came a strange clarity. She put the phone back on the shelf—exactly as she had found it. Mechanically, she took the salt.
“Thank you for the salt, Anna Petrovna,” her voice sounded surprisingly calm. “I must go, the dough is waiting.”
“Kristina, wait!” the mother-in-law stood up, trying to hold her daughter-in-law back. “Let’s talk… Maybe we can fix this?”
“We will talk,” Christina forced a smile. “But first, I’ll bake bread. You know, my mother always said: any decision should be made with a clear head and a full stomach.”
She left the apartment, carefully closing the door behind her. Descending the stairs, Christina thought about how today would not just end with kneading the dough. For the first time in a long time, she felt truly grown-up—someone ready to make tough decisions and take responsibility for them.
Climbing to her own fourth floor, Christina mechanically counted the steps—a habit from childhood that had helped her deal with the fear of the dark in the entranceway. Now, the monotonous counting calmed her raging thoughts.
In her apartment, she was greeted by silence and the smell of the rising dough. Christina approached the kitchen table where the doughy mass awaited under a towel. She touched it mechanically—the crust barely crunched under her fingers, the dough inside was soft and pliable. It was time to add the salt.
She poured the salt into a measuring spoon, and her hand suddenly froze above the dough. Her mother-in-law’s words echoed: “Three months…” Three months ago, Sergey first stayed late at work. Then he had brought her favorite peonies and apologized profusely for the delay. Now Christina understood that the flowers were bought out of guilt… but not just for being late at work.
After adding the salt, she began kneading the dough. The action, so familiar and soothing, helped organize her thoughts. With each movement, things became clearer in her mind.
The front door slammed just as Christina was putting the bread form into the oven. Sergey always came home at this time.
“Already cooking?” his voice from the hallway sounded normal. “I thought we’d order something today.”
Christina wiped her hands on a towel and turned to the door. There stood her husband—so familiar and yet so foreign. He was smiling, but his glance flicked to her face for a moment, trying to read if everything was alright.
“I was at your mom’s today,” Christina said calmly. “I went for some salt.”
Sergey froze mid-sentence, his smile slowly fading. A heavy silence hung in the kitchen, broken only by the quiet humming of the oven.
“I think we need to talk,” Christina continued, looking him straight in the eyes. “And this time—honestly. About Masha R., the second phone, and what happens next.”
Sergey slowly sank into a chair, seeming to age several years in an instant. His shoulders slumped, and his gaze held a mix of shame and relief—as if he had long awaited this conversation but lacked the strength to start it himself.
“I was going to tell you,” he began quietly, but Christina shook her head.
“When? In a month? In a year?” Her voice remained surprisingly even. “Or when I found out everything myself, like today?”
The aroma of fresh bread began to fill the room from the oven. This homey, comforting smell seemed almost mocking against the backdrop of their crumbling family happiness.
“Masha… she’s a colleague from the new project,” Sergey spoke, looking at the floor. “It all started so foolishly—a corporate event, then joint lunches… I didn’t plan it, really. It just happened…”
“Just happened?” Christina smirked. “The phone also bought itself? And hid itself at your mother’s?”
She walked over to the window, looking down at the familiar courtyard below. There, on the playground, some children played. Sergey and she often talked about how their future children would play right here.
“You know what the most hurtful part is?” she turned to her husband. “Not the affair itself, though it hurts. What’s hurtful is that you involved your mother. Made her lie, keep your secrets, betray me… She loves us both. How could you do that to her?”
Sergey flinched as if slapped. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Kristin, I’ll fix everything. I’ll end it with Masha today, delete her number…”
“No,” Christina firmly interrupted him. “You won’t be ending anything. At least, not for me. You made your choice three months ago when you bought that second phone. Now it’s my turn.”
She approached the oven, put on oven mitts, and took out the loaf of bread. The golden crust was perfectly baked, steam rising from the loaf.
“I’m moving to a friend’s place. Tomorrow. I need time to think, and you probably do too,” she set the bread aside to cool. “And now, please leave. I want to be alone.”
Sergey stood up, staggering as if drunk. At the door, he turned back:
“Forgive me. I truly love you.”
“You know,” Christina responded without turning around, “I loved you too. And I still do. But sometimes love is not enough.”
When the door closed behind him, Christina slowly sank to the floor. Tears she had been holding back finally broke through. She cried, sitting on the floor of her kitchen, where she had been so happy many times before, where she baked bread for their little family, where she made plans for the future.
Outside, evening fell, and she continued sitting there, hugging her knees, thinking about how strangely life is arranged: sometimes you need to lose something important to find the strength to move on.
That night, Christina did not go to bed. After her tears dried, she methodically moved around the apartment, gathering essentials. Documents, several sets of clothes, a laptop for work. Each item resonated with a memory—there was the dress from their first date, a photo album from their wedding, a mug with a chipped handle that Sergey always promised to fix…
The phone was silent. No calls, no messages—as if Sergey also understood that any words now would be superfluous.
In the early morning, Anna Petrovna called. Her voice trembled:
“Kristinochka, aren’t you sleeping? I’ve been awake all night… Sergey came by, took that… phone. Said you know everything. Daughter, maybe you’ll come to me? Let’s talk?”
“No, Anna Petrovna,” Christina answered softly but firmly. “Now is not the time. I need to be alone and think about a lot. And you probably do too.”
“I only wanted the best…” her mother-in-law sobbed. “I thought he would come to his senses, that everything would be fine…”
“I know,” Christina closed her eyes. “But sometimes silence only makes things worse. Sorry, I need to get ready for work.”
At the office, she arrived earlier than usual. Sat at her desk, turned on the computer. Colleagues started trickling in an hour later, greeting as usual, unaware that her life had split into “before” and “after.”
During lunch, her friend Lena called, where Christina planned to stay:
“I’ve made up the guest room. Come whenever you’re comfortable, I always have a spare key for you.”
“Thank you,” Christina swallowed a lump in her throat. “You know, I keep thinking—maybe I decided too hastily? Maybe we should try…”
“Or maybe it’s enough thinking about others more than yourself?” Lena gently interrupted. “You said yourself—you need time. Take it. Not for him, not for his mother—for yourself.”
After work, Christina stopped by the apartment for her belongings, then called a taxi. The driver helped load the bags, and the car moved away, taking her from the home where part of her life remained. In the rearview mirror, she noticed a familiar figure—Sergey stood at the entrance, watching the departing taxi.
Somewhere in the bag lay the bread she couldn’t leave behind. The last loaf mixed in their shared kitchen. Christina thought that perhaps it was time to learn to bake bread with a new recipe. And to live anew.
Lena’s apartment welcomed Christina with the warmth and smell of freshly brewed coffee. Her friend, without asking too many questions, helped unpack, and then they sat in the kitchen for a long time, looking at the night city through a panoramic window.
“Know,” Lena broke the silence, “when I divorced Pasha, it felt like life was over. Now, looking back, I realize—it was just the beginning.”
Christina distractedly traced her finger around the rim of her cup. “I don’t even know if I want a divorce. For now, I just want… to not feel this pain.”
“Pain is normal,” Lena placed her hand on her shoulder. “The important thing is not to let it control your decisions.”
The next morning, the first message from Sergey arrived: “I’m still hoping we can talk. When you’re ready.” Christina read it several times but did not respond.
Days passed in their own rhythm. Work, evening talks with Lena, rare calls to her mother, whom she wasn’t yet ready to tell the whole truth. Anna Petrovna wrote every day, but Christina responded briefly and reservedly, as the wound in her soul was still too fresh.
One evening, emptying her bag completely, she stumbled upon that very loaf of bread. The bread had certainly gone stale, but for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away. Instead, Christina pulled out her phone and dialed her grandmother’s number.
“Grandma, remember you used to tell me about the bread rusks you made in your youth?”
Her grandmother was delighted by the call, and the next hour was spent talking about recipes, life, and how important it is to not lose oneself even in the toughest times. Towards the end of the conversation, her grandmother unexpectedly said:
“You know, Kristinushka, life is like dough—sometimes you need to give it time to rise. Don’t rush your decisions, but don’t be afraid to make them when the time comes.”
After this conversation, for the first time in many days, Christina felt a semblance of peace. She cut that very bread into cubes, sprinkled them with spices, and sent them into the oven. The apartment was filled with a familiar aroma, but now it did not cause pain—only a light sadness and a strange sense of hope.
On the windowsill was a small pot of basil that Lena had bought especially for her. The young leaves stretched towards the light, reminding her that life goes on, even when it seems the world is falling apart.
“Maybe it’s time to start writing my own cookbook?” Lena smiled, peeking into the kitchen.
Christina nodded, looking at the crispy rusks. Perhaps it was time not only for new recipes but also for a new chapter in her life.
From that day on, something changed in Christina. She started a diary—a simple notebook where she wrote down not only recipes but also her thoughts, feelings, and plans for the future. The first page bore the entry: “My new life. Recipe in progress.”
Sergey continued to write. His messages became more desperate: “I broke up with her,” “I’m seeing a psychologist,” “Let’s try to fix everything.” Christina read them but still did not respond. Not out of a desire to punish—she simply did not yet know what to say.
One morning, while getting ready for work, she saw her reflection in the mirror and suddenly realized that for the first time in a long time, she was smiling. Not forcibly, not for others—but simply because she suddenly felt like smiling.
At the office, a surprise awaited her—a promotion she had long dreamed of but almost forgotten about due to recent events. Her boss called her in:
“Christina, we’ve been following your work for a long time. You particularly impressed us this last month with your composure and professionalism. How do you feel about a position as the head of the project team?”
Returning home—now to Lena’s—she thought about how strangely life is arranged. When one aspect of it collapses, others suddenly begin to fall into place, as if compensating for the loss.
In the evening, Anna Petrovna called:
“Kristinochka, I know you probably don’t want to talk to me… But I must say. I was very wrong. And it’s not even about Sergey—I betrayed you when I should have supported you.”
Christina was silent, listening to her mother-in-law’s intermittent breathing on the phone.
“Know, Anna Petrovna,” she finally said, “let’s meet. Saturday afternoon, at our favorite confectionery. I think we both have a lot to discuss.”
Hanging up, Christina walked to the window. Below, the evening life of the city bustled—people hurrying home, couples walking arm in arm, young mothers pushing strollers. Each of them carried their own story, their own pain, their own hopes.
On the windowsill, the basil had grown—not a timid seedling anymore, but a robust plant with juicy leaves. Christina ran her finger over a cool leaf and thought that perhaps it was time to take the next step. Exactly what that was—she didn’t yet know. But for the first time in a long time, this uncertainty did not frighten, but inspired her.
She pulled out her phone and opened the unread messages from Sergey. “Okay,” she wrote, “let’s talk. Saturday, 7 PM, in the park by the fountain. Just a conversation—no promises.”
Sending the message, Christina felt a strange relief. Whatever happened next, it would be her conscious choice, not an escape from reality.
On Saturday morning, Christina stood in front of the mirror for a long time, choosing an outfit. For the first time in the last month, she wanted to look not just neat, but truly good. She chose a light blue dress—the one that her mother-in-law once loved so much.
The confectionery where they agreed to meet had hardly changed. The same lace curtains, showcases with pastries, the smell of freshly ground coffee. Only now, it all seemed different—like scenery from a past life.
Anna Petrovna was already waiting for her at a table by the window. She had noticeably lost weight, and there were more gray hairs in her hair. Seeing Christina, she stood up awkwardly, hesitating—whether to embrace her daughter-in-law or to limit herself to a formal greeting.
“I ordered your favorite latte,” she said instead of greeting. “And these blueberry pastries, remember how we used to…”
“I remember,” Christina gently interrupted, sitting down. “Thank you.”
The conversation started awkwardly. They talked about the weather, work, the new basil on the windowsill—about everything but the main topic. Finally, Anna Petrovna dared:
“I think every day—why didn’t I stop him right away? Why did I let all this happen?”
“And I think—why didn’t I notice the obvious?” Christina responded. “You know, blaming oneself is the easiest. It’s harder to accept that sometimes we just can’t control everything.”
They talked for almost three hours. About betrayal and forgiveness, about love and responsibility, about how difficult it can be to make the right choice. When it was time to say goodbye, Anna Petrovna suddenly hugged Christina tightly:
“Whatever you decide tonight… know that for me, you will always remain a daughter.”
The evening came too quickly. Christina walked to her meeting with Sergey, and each step became increasingly difficult. The fountain was not crowded—only a couple of pigeons fussed at the edge of the basin.
She saw him from afar—he had arrived earlier and was now nervously pacing back and forth. In his hands—a bouquet of peonies, her favorites. Like then, when he “stayed late” because of Masha…
“Hello,” her voice sounded quieter than she wanted.
Sergey turned around. They stood opposite each other, separated by a few meters and a whole chasm of unspoken words.
“I…” they began at the same time, and both fell silent.
“Let’s just walk,” Christina suggested. “And talk. About everything.”
They walked down the alley, and for the first time in a long time, the silence between them did not seem hostile. Just the silence of two people who had to decide—can they start everything over, or had their story already written its last sentence?
Somewhere in the distance, the sunset began, coloring the sky in the same shades of pink as the peonies in Sergey’s hands. The day was coming to an end, and with it—the time of uncertainty. It was time to make a choice.
They walked in silence until they reached an old gazebo deep in the park. Here, five years ago, Sergey had proposed to her. Christina involuntarily smiled at this coincidence.
“Do you remember?” Sergey asked quietly.
“I remember,” she sat down on the bench. “It was also a Saturday evening then.”
Sergey remained standing, nervously twisting the stems of the peonies.
“I went to a psychologist,” he began. “Twice a week. Trying to understand—why I did what I did, what’s wrong with me…”
“And what did you understand?”
“That I was scared,” he finally sat down next to her, but at a distance. “Scared of our stability, plans about children, responsibility… Masha seemed… like a way to escape all that. Silly, right?”
Christina watched the setting sun. Its rays shone through the petals of the peonies, casting whimsical shadows on the wooden floor of the gazebo.
“You know what’s the scariest part?” she said. “I could have forgiven the affair. I could understand a moment of weakness. But you built a whole parallel life. A second phone, hideaways at your mother’s, months of lies… It was a choice. A daily, conscious choice—to betray me again and again.”
“I know,” his voice trembled. “That’s why I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking… for a chance. A chance to prove I can be better.”
Christina turned to him. In the twilight, his face seemed especially vulnerable—so familiar yet so alien.
“And me?” she asked quietly. “Can I be the same? Can I trust again, not flinch at every late call, not look for deception in every word you say?”
She stood up, walked to the railing of the gazebo. The evening air was filled with the scent of blooming lindens and an approaching storm.
“I’ve thought a lot over the last month,” she continued. “About us, about myself, about what I really want. And you know… I realized I don’t want to be the one who forgave. I don’t want to be the one who gave a second chance. I want to be the one who respects herself enough to start with a clean slate.”
“That means…” Sergey didn’t finish his sentence.
“It means I’m filing for divorce,” she said these words calmly, without a tremble in her voice. “Not because I don’t love you. But because I finally learned to love myself a little more.”
The first drops of rain fell on the roof of the gazebo. Christina turned to Sergey:
“Keep the peonies for yourself. Or give them to your mother—she always loved live flowers.”
She left the gazebo as the rain began, not looking back. A storm lay ahead, but somewhere beyond the clouds, the dawn of her new life was already breaking.
The rain intensified, but Christina was in no hurry to find shelter. Warm drops mixed with tears on her cheeks, and for the first time in a long time, they were not tears of despair—rather, of purification. She walked through the deserted park alleys, and with each step, it became easier to breathe.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket—a message from Lena: “How are you? Need help?”
“I’m going home,” Christina typed, pausing over the word “home.” Now it really was her home, albeit temporary.
By the time she reached Lena’s apartment, the storm was in full swing. Her friend waited for her with hot tea and a blanket.
“You know,” Christina said, wrapping herself in the blanket, “I thought it would be scarier. More painful. But I feel… calm.”
Lena silently hugged her shoulders. They sat by the window, watching as lightning streaked across the sky, and each flash seemed to Christina a symbol—as if nature itself was illuminating the path to a new life.
“Tomorrow I’ll call my mom,” she finally said. “Tell her everything. And then start looking for an apartment. It’s time to stop hiding.”
“Don’t rush,” Lena softly replied. “You can always stay here as long as you need.”
Somewhere deep in the apartment, a clock ticked, counting the minutes of her new chapter. On the windowsill, an overgrown basil plant rustled its leaves, and the air still carried a faint scent of fresh bread—now her own recipe.
“You know what’s the most amazing?” Christina turned to her friend. “I suddenly realized that I have a whole life ahead of me. And I can do whatever I want with it.”
Outside, the rain gradually subsided, taking the last doubts with it. Tomorrow would be a new day, and Christina was ready to meet it—not as a victim of circumstances, but as the author of her own story.
In her bag lay a notebook with recipes and notes. On the last page, a new entry appeared: “Sometimes you need to let go of the past to free your hands for the future.” Next to it—a small drawing: a basil sprout reaching for the sun.