The phone rang at three in the morning—loud and insistent.
Svetlana rolled onto her other side and pulled the blanket over her head. Half-awake, she heard Anton get up, groping for his slippers in the dark.
“Who on earth is calling at this hour?” she muttered, turning onto her back.
Anton didn’t answer; he simply closed the bedroom door behind him. Unusual—he almost always made some comment about nighttime calls. Svetlana propped herself on one elbow. Sleep vanished in an instant.
She caught the muffled sound of her husband’s voice from the hallway.
“Can’t talk now,” Anton whispered. “Ira, calm down. Tomorrow. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.”
Ira?
Svetlana’s heart plummeted. Ira—Anton’s ex-wife. The very same woman he’d spent twenty years with before meeting Svetlana. The very same woman with whom, according to him, “everything was settled and closed.”
Svetlana slipped out of bed. The parquet was cold beneath her bare feet. She went to the door and listened.
“Okay, I understand. Just stop crying,” Anton said, using that special tone Svetlana had memorized over eight years of marriage—the tone he reserved for people who truly mattered to him.
The bedroom door creaked as Svetlana opened it a crack. Anton spun around; the phone jerked in his hand.
“I’ll call you back,” he said hastily into the receiver and hung up. “Svetik, why aren’t you asleep?”
“And why are you whispering in the middle of the night?” She tried to keep her question casual, but her voice betrayed her.
“It’s nothing,” Anton rubbed his forehead. “Sasha called—he’s having trouble at work and needed advice.”
Sasha. Anton’s friend—one Svetlana knew well. And it definitely hadn’t been Sasha’s problem.
“Anton, I heard you,” she said, folding her arms. “You were talking to Ira.”
“A stupid coincidence,” he offered a sheepish smile. “She felt sick—her blood pressure shot up. She panicked. You know how she gets.”
“I don’t know,” Svetlana cut him off. “How would I know how she gets?”
“Oh, come on,” Anton tried to hug her, but she stepped back. “She called; I answered. What was I supposed to do—hang up?”
“Why is she calling you at three a.m.? She has a son, there’s an ambulance service…”
“Svet, let’s talk in the morning,” Anton yawned. “Nothing terrible happened.”
But something in his eyes told Svetlana that something had happened—long ago. She went back to bed in silence, turning her back to him. Anton joined her five minutes later, lying carefully so he wouldn’t touch her shoulder.
Svetlana lay awake until dawn. A strange feeling settled under her heart—cold and prickly. Mistrust.
Morning greeted her with a pounding headache. She woke to clattering in the kitchen—Anton was rattling dishes, whistling as if last night’s call never happened.
She put on her robe and glanced in the mirror. Puffy eyes, deeper lines. At fifty-six, every sleepless night leaves its mark.
“Morning,” Anton said when she entered the kitchen. “I made coffee. Want some?”
“I do.” She sat at the table. “Care to tell me what happened last night?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Svet,” Anton rolled his eyes. “Ira called—she had a panic attack. She’s a worrier, you know that.”
“How would I know?” Svetlana sipped her coffee. “I’ve seen her five times in eight years, and each time she pretended I didn’t exist.”
“Enough already.” Anton set a plate of sandwiches in front of her. “I didn’t hang up, did I? The woman felt bad.”
Svetlana studied him. Sixty, yet he looked younger—fit, the familiar mischievous spark in his eyes. The very spark that once made her fall in love despite the age gap and his complicated past.
“You said, ‘Ira, calm down. Tomorrow we’ll decide everything,’” she reminded him. “What exactly are you two deciding?”
Anton froze for a second, then waved it off.
“She wants to borrow some money. Financial trouble.”
“Has she asked before?” Svetlana raised an eyebrow.
“No, of course not,” he answered too quickly. “First time.”
That evening Svetlana called her best friend, Tanya.
“Can you imagine? He looks me straight in the eye and lies,” she paced the living room while Anton was in the garage. “I can feel it, Tanya—something’s off.”
“Check his phone,” Tanya suggested.
“I won’t snoop through his things,” Svetlana protested. “That’s humiliating.”
“What’s humiliating? He’s your husband. And if there’s nothing there, you’ll be at peace.”
“And if there is?” A lump formed in her throat.
“Then you’ll know the truth,” Tanya said firmly. “Better a bitter truth than a sweet lie.”
Two days later Anton left his phone at home. He’d gone out on errands; the smartphone sat on the coffee table. Svetlana passed it once, twice. She stopped and stared. The phone seemed to wink at her with its black screen—the answer to every question.
She knew the passcode—his mother’s birthday. Her fingers trembled as she typed.
She opened the messenger and found the chat with Irina. The latest message: “Thank you for last night. You always understand me like no one else.”
Svetlana scrolled up. Café meetings. Long conversations. “I miss our talks.” “Remember when we…?” “You’re the only one I can tell this to.”
Two years. They had been secretly chatting for two years.
The phone slipped from her hands onto the carpet. She sank into an armchair, feeling something tear inside. Not betrayal in the usual sense—something worse: betrayal of trust.
“Why, Anton?” she whispered into the empty room. “Why did you lie?”
When Anton came home, she was still sitting there. The phone lay on the table, screen up.
“Hi, I—” He stopped when he saw her face. “What happened?”
“Two years,” she said quietly. “For two years you lied to me.”
Anton glanced at the phone, then back at her. Panic flickered in his eyes.
“Svetlana, listen—”
“No,” she raised a hand. “Now you listen. I don’t understand. Why the secrecy? If you wanted to talk to your ex-wife, you could’ve done it openly.”
“I knew you’d be against it,” Anton sat opposite her. “Ira has no one but her son, and he’s always busy. She’s got no one to talk to.”
“But it’s okay to lie to me?” Svetlana gave a bitter laugh. “‘Working late,’ ‘Client meeting’—while you’re sitting in a café with her.”
“We only talked!” Anton’s voice rose. “Nothing else!”
“It’s not about ‘something else,’” she shook her head. “It’s about trust. You destroyed it.”
The evening passed in heavy silence. Anton tried to explain: after the divorce, Irina’s health deteriorated, depression set in, and he felt responsible—twenty years together, after all.
“And you feel no responsibility to me?” Svetlana asked. “After eight years, don’t I deserve honesty?”
“You do,” he sighed. “I was just afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
“You were right to be afraid,” she turned toward the window. “I don’t understand.”
That night she couldn’t sleep, staring at the ceiling, replaying their life in her mind.
They’d met at a company event—she was an accountant, he a visiting consultant. Six months later they married. She was happy: at forty-eight she’d found someone to start over with. She believed it was a new chapter for him too.
Turns out he’d never closed the old one.
At breakfast Anton looked remorseful.
“I’ll stop all contact,” he said. “No more meetings with Ira.”
“Too late,” Svetlana replied. “I’m filing for divorce.”
“What?” He choked on his coffee. “Over a few meetings with my ex-wife? Svetlana, have you lost your mind?”
“No,” she met his gaze. “For the first time in a long while, I’m thinking clearly. I don’t want to be a backup option, wondering where you really are when you’re late. I won’t share you with your past.”
“But I love you,” Anton said helplessly.
“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “But you don’t respect me enough to be honest.”
In the following days Anton tried everything—deleted Irina’s number, showed Svetlana every message, called from work to report his whereabouts. But she wouldn’t forgive.
“Svet, isn’t this enough?” he asked once.
“You don’t understand,” she replied. “I need a husband I can trust.”
Tanya backed her up:
“You’re doing the right thing. You can’t let him treat you like this.”
“Am I giving up too soon?” Svetlana wavered. “Maybe I should give him a chance?”
“He lied for two years,” Tanya reminded her. “Two years, Svetlana. That’s not a mistake—that’s a way of life.”
“I’m scared,” Svetlana admitted. “I’m fifty-six. I thought I’d grow old with Anton.”
“Better to grow old alone than with someone who makes you feel second-rate,” Tanya squeezed her hand. “You’ll manage.”
The divorce went surprisingly smoothly. Anton didn’t contest the property; the shared apartment stayed with Svetlana, while he moved into his bachelor flat. On the eve of signing the final papers, he called.
“Let’s meet,” his voice sounded worn out. “Talk like human beings.”
Svetlana agreed. They met at the same café where they had celebrated their first anniversary.
“I just don’t get it,” Anton turned a cup of cold coffee in his hands. “Can’t we forgive and move on?”
“I have forgiven,” Svetlana looked out the window. Rain was drizzling, people hurrying by. “But I realized something—you’ll always be her rock. And you’ll never be entirely my husband.”
“That’s not true,” he frowned.
“Anton,” she gave a sad smile. “When things were tough, you called her. When you wanted to share joy—you called her too. You lived a double life and shut me out.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“And you hurt me the most,” she sighed. “Do you know what stings the most? I could have accepted your friendship if you’d said openly, ‘Svetlana, Ira and I are still friends.’ Maybe not right away, but I’d have come to terms. But you chose lies.”
Anton bowed his head.
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I was afraid of your reaction.”
“And you got the worst reaction possible,” she finished her tea. “Good-bye.”
At first the empty apartment pressed on her ears. No one to ask how her day was, no one to start the coffeemaker in the morning, no reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Maybe I made a mistake?” she called Tanya almost every evening. “Maybe I should’ve fought?”
“For what?” her friend would reply. “For the right to share your husband with his ex?”
Step by step, Svetlana built a new life. She enrolled in Spanish classes—a dream long postponed. She visited her daughter from her first marriage more often; now the young woman drove in every week from the neighboring city.
One evening the phone rang: Anton.
“Wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine,” she said. “And you?”
“I miss you,” he admitted. “Maybe we could try again?”
Svetlana paused, then quietly answered, “No, Anton. I’ve finally learned to respect myself. I don’t want to lose that.”
In the spring Svetlana met Dmitry, the instructor of her Spanish course. A widower, cultured, who invited her to the theater. She accepted.
“Isn’t it scary to start over?” Tanya asked.
“It is,” Svetlana smiled. “But missing a chance at happiness is scarier.”
Then came her birthday—and Svetlana suddenly realized life was only gathering speed. She looked at herself in the mirror. Yes, crow’s-feet. Yes, silver strands. But her gaze had changed—steadier, calmer.
The phone rang again. Dmitry invited her to spend the weekend at his dacha and meet his daughter and grandchildren.
“Are you ready? It’s a serious step,” he said.
“I’m ready,” she replied. “I’ve spent a long time learning to be happy. Now I know my happiness depends on me.”
That evening she sat on the balcony, inhaling the scent of blooming linden. Music drifted from a neighbor’s window. Svetlana closed her eyes and allowed herself to dream of a future—clear and honest. No secrets, no half-truths, no ghosts of the past.
“You did it,” she told herself. “You made it.”
And for the first time in a long while, she believed the best truly lay ahead—that at fifty-six you can start anew, and self-respect isn’t an empty phrase but the foundation of real happiness.
The phone rang once more. Her daughter.
“Mom, I’m so proud of you,” she said. “You’ve taught me the most important thing—it’s never too late to choose yourself.”
Svetlana smiled. This, she realized, was true wealth: to be an example for her children, to be the woman who dared to change her fate even when it seemed too late.