One phone call turned Anastasia’s life upside down, revealing the secrets and lies of her marriage. But fate had an unexpected twist in store — in the labyrinth of betrayal, she would find her path to true happiness.
“He said to tell you he has a sweet little thing just like you. Only younger. And prettier.”
The rattling voice on the other end of the line suddenly sounded unbearably loud. The dim room, lit only by the twilight of an autumn day, seemed to echo with those words.
“Who is this?” Anastasia asked, gripping the phone tighter.
In the kitchen, apple jam brought by a neighbor from the dacha was boiling on the stove. The smell of cinnamon and caramelizing sugar filled the apartment, mingling with the scent of withering flowers in a decorative Murano glass vase.
“Doesn’t matter,” the woman giggled. “Just know this: Igor and I have a child. A daughter. She’s three. He’s moving in with us.”
The call ended as abruptly as it began. Anastasia slowly lowered the phone and stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Outside the window, silent cars sped past on the wet asphalt of Dekabristov Street.
The solid oak furniture bought from a Swedish store last spring, the dark chocolate-colored leather sofa, the coffee table with its frosted glass top — it all suddenly felt foreign, fake, like theater props.
A deep sigh escaped her chest. The sound of a key turning in the lock broke the silence.
“Baby, I’m home!” came a familiar voice from the hallway.
Igor appeared in the doorway, tall, with light brown hair tied back in a careless ponytail. He smelled of expensive cologne — and something unfamiliar, something alien.
“Do you have a child?” Anastasia asked directly.
Her husband’s face twitched. The muscles in his cheeks tensed.
“Who told you…” he began, then stopped. “I was going to tell you.”
“When exactly? After three years of marriage? After we talked about having a baby yesterday?” Each word was hard to say.
Igor sank into the armchair, rubbing his face with his hand.
“It was a long time ago, before you,” he said quietly. “A one-time thing. I didn’t know about the child.”
“Don’t lie — not now!”
He flinched at her sharp tone.
“Yes, I saw her. A few times,” he admitted after a pause. “We were working on a project together. Then… things happened.”
“Things happened,” Anastasia echoed. “And how long did these ‘things’ go on?”
The weight of silence settled between them. From the kitchen came the smell of burnt sugar — the jam had boiled over.
“About a year,” Igor murmured.
The silence that followed was deafening.
“At first I just couldn’t turn away from my daughter once I found out,” he continued. “And then… then I realized I couldn’t be without both of them.”
Something crashed in the kitchen. The Delonghi coffee machine — a wedding anniversary gift from Igor — turned on automatically.
“So you realized,” Anastasia said slowly, feeling reality shatter around her. “And now what?”
He looked up at her. His eyes held something like regret — but not remorse.
“I’m leaving, Nastya. I’m sorry.”
The apartment on Vasilievsky Island had been empty for three days. A fine layer of dust settled on the furniture, and the potted plants had started to dry out.
The ring of her mobile phone cut through the silence. Anastasia fumbled for it on the bedside table.
“Anastasia Viktorovna?” said a clinical voice. “Your results are in. The test is positive. You’re pregnant.”
The world stood still for a second. Pale light fell across rumpled sheets and scattered belongings.
“You need to come in for your initial consultation,” the woman continued. “Preferably with your husband.”
“There is no husband anymore,” Anastasia replied mechanically.
After the call ended, she remained motionless, listening to the ticking of the “Hermle” wall clock — a gift from her mother-in-law. “Proper German clocks for a proper Russian family,” she had said. Absentmindedly, her hand rested on her stomach.
Four years had passed since Anastasia’s world shattered.
Small arms wrapped around her neck.
“Mommy, wake up! We’re going to Petya’s birthday today!”
The light body of five-year-old Misha flopped onto the bed beside her. He smiled, showing off a recently lost baby tooth.
“It’s still early, sweetheart,” Anastasia murmured, pulling him close. “Let’s cuddle a bit longer.”
Childish laughter filled the room. Alexey stood in the doorway with a tray, smiling.
“Breakfast for my sleepyheads,” he said, entering the room. “Cheese pancakes and strawberry tea.”
Anastasia looked at her husband gratefully. Gray eyes, fine lines at the corners when he smiled, a calm expression — all of it had become so dear to her over the past three years.
Their meeting at New Holland Park felt fated. She was there with a stroller holding three-month-old Misha. He was there with his seven-year-old son Kirill, flying a kite. The conversation started with the weather and turned into a long walk through the alleys.
“What are you thinking about?” Alexey asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“How much my life has changed,” Anastasia answered honestly. “Sometimes I think it’s all just a dream.”
Misha jumped off the bed and ran to the kitchen, where his favorite toy — an Optimus Prime transformer — was waiting.
“You deserve happiness,” Alexey said softly, kissing her forehead. “We all do.”
“Even after everything that’s happened?”
“Especially after that.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a doorbell.
“Kirill’s here!” Misha shouted, running from the kitchen.
Alexey stood up and went to the door. Anastasia watched him — tall, slightly stooped, broad-shouldered — and thought how fate often takes unexpected turns.
After emergency surgery in her fourth month of pregnancy, when doctors had warned that successful childbirth was unlikely, Misha became a true miracle. A miracle Anastasia decided to keep to herself, never telling Igor about the baby. The day she signed the divorce papers, an ultrasound photo of new life lay in her purse.
“Mom! Mom!” Misha burst into the room, followed by Kirill — a serious-faced teen who looked just like his father. “Kirill downloaded a new game for me on the tablet!”
“Only educational,” Kirill added quickly, catching Anastasia’s questioning look. “About space and planets.”
“I trust you know how to pick the right games,” she smiled.
Alexey returned to the room holding an envelope.
“This is for you,” he said, handing Anastasia the letter. “The courier just delivered it.”
There was no return address on the white envelope — only her name and a familiar handwriting.
How can anyone treat a person like that—the one they swore to love for life?” asked the girl in the linen dress anxiously, sitting on a bench in the Summer Garden.
A young man with a painter’s sketchbook turned to her.
“Those vows… sometimes people say them without understanding their true meaning,” he replied, setting aside his brush. “Life is more complicated than it seems at twenty.”
Anastasia was walking past and caught a random snippet of their conversation. Her heart clenched with uninvited memories. She had spent her twentieth birthday as a married woman, having wed Igor at the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. Back then, it felt like love would last forever, that no obstacle could destroy what they had built together.
“Mom, can I have ice cream?” Misha tugged on her sleeve, pointing at the ice cream vendor’s cart.
“Okay, but just one,” Anastasia smiled, pulling out her wallet.
The boy ran off to choose a flavor while she sat on the nearest bench and took out an envelope she hadn’t dared to open for three days.
With trembling fingers, she tore the paper and unfolded the letter inside.
“Nastya,
I know I have no right to write you after everything that happened. But so much time has passed, and I need to admit: the way I treated you was the biggest mistake of my life.
Every day I wake up with the realization that I destroyed something real for an illusion. Lera left me two years ago, taking our daughter. Now I only see Sonya on weekends. Everything that once seemed so important and real has crumbled like a house of cards.
I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not hoping for anything. I just want you to know—you deserved a better husband than me. I hope you’re happy now, and with someone who truly values you.
Igor”
“Strawberry’s the best!” Misha shouted joyfully, returning with a pink scoop on a waffle cone.
Anastasia quickly folded the letter and put it back in her bag.
“Let me have a taste,” she said, leaning toward her son.
Misha offered the ice cream, and she pretended to take a bite, only brushing it lightly with her lips.
“Mom, were you crying?” he suddenly asked, looking at her with dark brown eyes so much like his father’s.
“No, sweetheart. It’s just the wind,” she said, wiping away an unwanted tear.
“Dad said he’s coming this weekend to take us fishing,” Misha shared while devouring his ice cream. “And Kirill’s coming too!”
“We’ll definitely go,” Anastasia replied. “Just don’t eat so fast, or your throat will hurt.”
That evening, after putting Misha to bed, Anastasia stepped out onto the balcony of their fifteenth-floor apartment in a new building on Prosveshcheniya Avenue. Below, the neon landscape of night-time St. Petersburg shimmered with billboard lights and street lamps.
Everything began to change that spring day when Konstantin—Aleksei’s army buddy, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly ten years—appeared in their home.
“Can you believe it? We bumped into each other at the gym on Komendantsky,” Aleksei said excitedly, coming home earlier than usual. “Kostya’s in business now, importing electronics.”
The fine lines near his eyes revealed his genuine joy. His light shirt was unbuttoned at the top, hair still damp from the gym shower.
“That’s great,” Anastasia smiled as she chopped vegetables for a salad. “Invite him over sometime.”
A week later, their spacious kitchen was filled with loud male laughter and the scent of expensive Hennessy cognac. Konstantin was a large man with a thick beard and piercing gaze. A gold chain as thick as a pinky sparkled on his neck, and heavy bracelets adorned his wrists.
“Lyoha, you’ve really settled down,” the guest boomed, eyeing the apartment. “Family, kids… good for you!”
Misha curiously studied the unexpected guest, while Kirill shyly hugged the wall, flipping through a new Marvel magazine.
“You’ve gotta let loose once in a while,” Konstantin added, winking at Aleksei. “Remember our training days in Pskov?”
A slight blush colored Aleksei’s cheeks.
“Good times,” he chuckled, casting a quick glance at Anastasia.
After dinner, the men secluded themselves in the living room, where muffled laughter and the clink of glasses could be heard.
“Tomorrow, Kostya and I are meeting up with the old unit,” Aleksei told her before bed. “You don’t mind if I get back late?”
The fine Egyptian cotton bedsheets from Togas felt cool on the skin. Outside, young maple leaves rustled softly.
“Of course not,” Anastasia replied, though something inside her stirred. “It’s good for you to unwind.”
At first, those “army reunions” happened once a week. Then twice. By the end of the month, Aleksei was coming home well past midnight nearly every evening. His shirts, even freshly washed, reeked of cigarette smoke and unfamiliar perfume.
“Don’t you think you’re getting too carried away with these hangouts?” Anastasia asked one night when he returned at 3 a.m.
The narrow kitchen lay in darkness, broken only by the soft glow of a nightlight on the counter. In the dimness, Aleksei’s face looked gaunt.
“Just making up for lost time,” he said, pouring himself a glass of water from their Aquaphor filter. “We hadn’t seen each other in years.”
Her soft, faux-fur slippers made no sound on the ceramic tiles.
“You need to quit drinking,” Anastasia said quietly, not looking at him. “You promised to take Misha to football tomorrow.”
Aleksei sighed and set his empty glass down.
“I’m exhausted,” he replied, rubbing his brow. “Maybe you or Kirill can go.”
A cold silence hung between them. The kids’ digital photo frame blinked on the wall, flipping to a picture from their vacation in Yalta.
“Fine. Kirill will take him,” Anastasia said at last. “I’ll finish up the accounting.”
Two weeks later, Aleksei announced that he had rented out their one-bedroom apartment in Staraya Derevnya to new tenants.
“We got lucky,” he said over breakfast, spreading Philadelphia cream cheese on toast. “They move in tomorrow—paid six months upfront.”
Anastasia’s syrniki sat untouched on her plate.
“Strange you didn’t even consult me,” she said, stirring her jasmine tea. “We agreed to save that place for Kirill when he starts university.”
A fine mist of steam hovered above their cups. He avoided eye contact.
“He’s got four years before that,” Aleksei waved her off. “We need the money to renovate the nursery now.”
The next evening, reviewing their joint bank account, Anastasia noticed odd transactions: purchases from Hoff furniture, M.Video electronics, and bedding sets.
“You’re refurnishing the apartment for the tenants?” she asked when Aleksei came home.
A stack of printed bank statements lay on the kitchen table. Aleksei froze in the doorway.
“People want comfort,” he finally replied. “If we invest now, we can raise the rent.”
That night, Anastasia noticed for the first time that her husband had removed their family photo from his desk—replacing it with a generic screensaver of mountains.
May rain drummed on the roof of Anastasia’s Toyota Camry as she parked near the Galeria mall on Ligovsky Prospekt. From the open window drifted the sound of a street orchestra playing jazz.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a phone call:
“Anastasia Viktorovna? Hello, this is Irina Viktorovna, Misha’s homeroom teacher. Could you pick him up early? He has a fever.”
“I’m on my way,” Anastasia replied, starting the engine. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Rain poured down the windshield, and the wipers struggled to keep up. Traffic on Nevsky Prospekt crawled like a sluggish river.
Suddenly, at a traffic light ahead, Anastasia spotted a familiar figure. Aleksei, shielding two women under an umbrella, was helping them into a taxi. One was very young, maybe twenty, with long blonde hair. The other—a stylish middle-aged woman in a beige coat.
Her breath caught with a sudden realization. She swerved toward the curb and stopped, watching as her husband gently closed the taxi door and spoke to the women through the open window. His face bore a smile she hadn’t seen in weeks.
School No. 583, where Misha studied, greeted her with the hushed buzz of children’s voices. The boy sat in the nurse’s office, pale, red-cheeked.
“Mommy,” he murmured when he saw her. “My throat hurts.”
Her cool hand rested on his hot forehead.
“Let’s go home, little one,” she whispered, helping him into his jacket.
She spent the whole evening by his bedside, changing compresses and checking his temperature. Her phone remained silent—Aleksei didn’t call or text.
He came home close to midnight. Misha was already asleep, and Anastasia was in the kitchen, going over work documents by the light of a desk lamp.
“How’s Misha?” he asked, removing his coat. “The school called, but I was busy.”
Closing her laptop slowly, Anastasia looked up at him.
“Who were those women you were helping into a taxi on Nevsky?”
The air in the small kitchen thickened. His hand, reaching for the fridge, froze.
“Just acquaintances,” he said, not turning around. “From work.”
A quiet laugh escaped her chest—surprising even herself.
“You know I saw you today,” she said softly. “Are those the women renting our apartment?”
Her husband turned slowly. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and a faint pink lipstick stain marked his shirt collar.
— Yes, — he said quietly. — It’s them.
The soft upholstery of the chair creaked under Anastasia’s weight as she leaned back.
— And who are they?
A heavy pause stretched out for several seconds.
— Vera and Ksenia, — Alexei replied reluctantly. — Vera is Ksenia’s mother.
A thin thread of suspicion tightened in Anastasia’s mind.
— And why did you hide them from me?
Alexei ran his hand through his hair, avoiding direct eye contact.
— Ksenia… she’s my daughter, — he finally admitted. — I only found out when I met Kostya. He happened to mention that he was in touch with Vera — I used to date her before the army.
The floor beneath her seemed to vanish into an abyss. The pendulum of the wall clock, bought at IKEA, kept its monotonous rhythm, ticking away the seconds of their unraveling happiness.
— You’re saying you have a twenty-year-old daughter you only just found out about? — Anastasia asked slowly. — And you decided to move her and her mother into our apartment?
The man nodded, staring at the floor.
— I wanted to figure it out first, — he muttered. — Everything’s so complicated… Ksyusha came back from France, where she was studying. Vera got divorced a year ago. They needed a place to stay…
Alexei’s phone rang on the table. The name “Vera” lit up on the screen. He flinched and reached for it, but stopped under his wife’s gaze.
— Answer it, — Anastasia said calmly. — Don’t keep her worrying.
Alexei gave her a grateful look and stepped out into the hallway. From there, soft, affectionate tones of his voice drifted back — tones Anastasia hadn’t heard in weeks.
Ten minutes later, he returned and paused in the doorway.
— I’m sorry, — he said quietly. — I should’ve told you sooner.
Anastasia looked up at him intently.
— Tell me everything now, — she said, motioning to the chair across from her. — The whole truth.
The man sank heavily into the chair, locking his hands together.
— The truth is… — he hesitated, gathering his thoughts. — I fell in love with Vera. Again. Just like twenty years ago.
The words dropped between them like heavy stones.
— And now what? — Anastasia asked, surprised by her own calm.
After much thought, Anastasia sold their shared apartment and moved with Misha to Kaliningrad — a city scented with the sea and new beginnings. She informed Alexei of her decision with a short letter, omitting the fact that she was pregnant again. Seven months later, a baby girl was born with sea-colored eyes — Alisa. Now a mother of two, Anastasia fully immersed herself in motherhood, choosing not to pursue new relationships and instead opening a small online language school.
Alexei, having lost his family and comfort, was forced to return to his one-bedroom apartment with Kirill. The cramped space, the tension in his relationship with Vera, and Ksenia’s difficult personality soon turned his life into a series of conflicts. Six months later, exhausted by constant arguments and unmet expectations, Vera took her daughter and moved to Saint Petersburg, leaving Alexei alone with his regrets.
When Kirill enrolled at a university in Kaliningrad, he didn’t hesitate to leave his father and move in with Anastasia, whom he had always considered his true mother. Every evening, watching her read fairy tales to Misha and Alisa, he realized: a real family isn’t where you were betrayed — it’s where you were taught to love, no matter what.
“Love doesn’t die a natural death. It is murdered — by indifference, lies, and betrayal.” — Oscar Wilde