Andrei had been carrying the same thought for months—he wanted to end the marriage. Quietly, without scandals or dramatic scenes. Just leave. Slip away, as if one day he walked out of the house and never came back.
He and Maria had lived together for seven years. No children, no shouting matches, no bright emotions. Their life was even, calm, and painfully predictable. Every morning was a copy of the one before. One day Andrei realized he couldn’t remember how last Saturday differed from this one, or what had happened on Monday two weeks ago.
Maria was the perfect wife. Strikingly perfect—and that began to irritate him. The house was always in order, the food hot and tasty, everything done in advance without him asking. Once Andrei merely thought of coffee, and the next moment Maria came in with a cup.
“How do you do that?” he asked, a little flustered.
“Do what, exactly?”
“You always know what I want.”
“I just feel you… because I love you very much,” she said lightly, as if commenting on the weather.
He nodded. No hug, no kiss—just a brief gesture of thanks, like tipping a waiter. Inside, there was nothing. His feelings had been fading gradually—no anger, no resentment, not even a flutter of excitement. Only dispassionate routine. He would thank her automatically: “Thanks,” he said, hardly thinking about it. She seemed to understand everything. She started peeking into his study less often, touching him less, going to bed first more and more.
And one day he noticed she had stopped meeting him at the door. She lay down earlier, wordless, as if she already knew—he’d been gone a long time.
Valeria appeared out of the blue—a young intern who joined their department for a couple of months. She was the opposite of Maria: lively, energetic, a spark in her eyes and a laugh capable of blowing up the office’s monotony. Everything about her moved—her voice, her gestures, even the way she set a cup down on the table.
Andrei noticed her right away, though he tried not to show it. She was too young, too free. But Valeria seemed to feel his gaze. Sometimes she lingered near his office door, sometimes she adjusted her hair, sometimes she struck up small talk about nothing, yet in a way that made it seem as if something else was hidden behind every word.
He caught himself thinking about her. He imagined her voice behind him, saw her in window reflections. For the first time in years his fantasies stirred something like a living feeling in him. He felt guilty, but quickly drove it away. After all, nothing was actually happening.
Until one day it did.
It was the end of the workday. The elevator. The two of them alone. The doors closed. Silence. And suddenly Valeria stepped closer. No extra words. She kissed him. Just like that.
“I wanted to know what you taste like,” she whispered as she walked out of the elevator with a confident stride.
Andrei remained standing inside, stunned. His heart pounded too loudly. His whole body seemed to burn.
She made no more overt moves. But every gesture of hers became a hint. Her blouses, her looks, her intonations—everything was an invitation. She played softly, skillfully, without pressure. And he entered the game—in his thoughts, in his glances, in the way he stopped hearing Maria’s voice at dinner.
Valeria occupied all his attention. And Andrei didn’t notice how thoughts of infidelity grew into actual betrayal.
He hardly remembered how they ended up in a hotel on the edge of the city. Rain at the window, silence in the elevator, the scent of perfume. It all happened swiftly, as if it weren’t serious. He felt as if he had broken out of confinement. This wasn’t a man cheating on his wife—this was a person reclaiming his right to live.
When they came out, Valeria adjusted her hair and winked.
“We’re adults. No obligations.”
He nodded. And inside, an anxious, empty space had already begun to grow.
At home, dinner waited under plastic wrap. Maria was asleep in the living room, the nightlight on. He sat down beside her and looked at her. She opened her eyes. They looked at each other for a long time. Without words. As if everything had already been said.
He wanted to say something—“I’m sorry,” “It’s not you,” “I just lost myself”—but he couldn’t. She didn’t ask. She didn’t cry. She simply turned toward the wall.
Andrei felt that he hadn’t betrayed his wife—he had betrayed the one who was still waiting for him. Who believed.
But the next day he went to Valeria anyway.
A few days later Andrei left on a business trip. He knew a conversation with Maria was inevitable, but kept putting it off. Valeria arrived soon after, as if that was how it was supposed to be. They spent evenings in his room, as though no past had ever existed between them.
On the third day Andrei was heading back alone. It was raining. He was crossing the street when a woman with a stroller suddenly ran out in front of him. A car shot around the corner at that same moment. Andrei managed to shove them out of the way. The impact landed on him.
The coma lasted several days. The diagnosis was alarming—spinal damage, possible disability. When he came to, the first person he saw was Maria. She sat by his bed, holding his hand. No tears, no hysteria—just there.
Valeria showed up only on the third day. She came into the room but didn’t approach the bed. She just tossed off:
“I’m young. I didn’t expect something like this. This isn’t my calling.”
She left easily, as if walking out of a restaurant after dinner.
Andrei realized she hadn’t known him at all. And hadn’t wanted to.
Maria stayed. She cleared the tray, spoke with the doctors, sometimes slept in a chair by his bed. Sometimes she just held his hand.
When he was discharged, everything went off the rails. He couldn’t work. They let him go, gently. In the elevator Valeria appeared with a new boss—tall, self-assured. She didn’t even look at Andrei.
Life got more expensive. Treatment, rehab, medicine—everything came out of a teacher’s salary. One day Andrei noticed that Maria had sold her earrings.
“They were just things,” she said. “I didn’t want you to suffer.”
In the spring he invited her to a small, cozy restaurant. Modest, with live music and soft light. He’d spent a long time choosing the place. Maria laughed, looked at him with a warmth he hadn’t noticed before.
“What can I do for you?” he asked when the dessert had already gone cold.
Maria looked straight at him.
“I would give my life for you… but I don’t need anything anymore. I just want you to live.”
He fell silent and then, for the first time in a long while, carefully took her hand.
A week later came a call from Aleksei Lvovich—the businessman whose life Andrei had saved at the crosswalk. The father of the woman with the stroller spoke firmly and confidently:
“I’m in your debt. And I want to set it right. I have a job for you. You won’t need to move much—just your head and your loyalty. I’ll teach you the rest.”
Work came back into his life. A purpose. And even something like hope.
It seemed everything was falling into place: a new project, a steady income, the recovery process, and even a rare but genuine smile returning to his face. Andrei again felt needed, confident, alive. And he found himself more and more often thinking that he wanted back not just peace—he wanted Maria back. For real. Completely.
He was going to propose to her. Not as a husband—but as a man who had finally understood who he had truly loved all those years.
But she left first.
It all happened suddenly. In the morning Maria, as always, made breakfast, straightened the throw on his chair, kissed him on the cheek. By evening she was gone. Only a note on the table—brief, like a snatch of thought.
“I knew everything. About Valeria. About the hotel. I kept quiet. Because at that time… I lost the baby. Ours. I didn’t want to live. But I stayed. For you. Now I’m leaving—for myself.”
Andrei read the note over and over. His hands trembled, his heart thudded fast and dull, but inside there was a strange numbness. He hadn’t known pain could be so quiet. Not piercing, not tearing—just empty. He hadn’t realized before that he had once destroyed something that couldn’t be restored.
He found her a day later. He stood at the door, rang, begged her to open. Maria came out—calm, ordinary, in a simple sweater and jeans. She looked straight at him, without tears, without pain.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t think. I…”
“You knew everything, Andrei. You just didn’t care.”
She turned and disappeared into the apartment. The door closed without a sound. He was left alone on the landing—like back then after the accident. Only this time no one held his hand.
Three years passed.
In that time Andrei achieved a great deal. The business Aleksei Lvovich had offered him expanded into an entire network. He became influential, respected, wealthy. He had a team, an office with a view, trips abroad, new connections…
But every night he returned to an empty, impeccably clean apartment. No scent of perfume, no laughter, no traces of life. Only silence and thoughts that would not let him rest. He no longer drank coffee in the mornings—as if its meaning had vanished the moment Maria stopped bringing it without being asked.
People called him cold-blooded, calculating, restrained. He didn’t argue. The cold really did live inside—not outwardly, but deep in his chest, as if something icy flowed through his veins instead of blood.
One day, driving home from the office, he heard a familiar song on the radio. A slightly husky woman’s voice sang: “I miss you…” Andrei pulled sharply over to the curb and stared through the windshield. The melody struck straight at his heart, dragging out everything he had hidden for so long.
He called the station. Asked if he could place a dedication. Half an hour later the song played again, now with his words:
“For Maria… If you’re listening—know this: I miss you. Every day. I understand everything now. Forgive me.”
He didn’t know if she would hear it. But deep down he hoped. That in some apartment, at a kitchen radio, a hand would freeze over a spoon and eyes would fill with tears.
For the first time in years he allowed himself to cry. Not from pain—but from the realization of how much he had lost. And perhaps for good.
It was late spring. Andrei went out to the park—not out of habit, but as if something were calling him there. He walked slowly along the paths, studying the faces of passersby—as he’d been doing more and more lately. It seemed to him that any minute someone would turn, smile, and say, “You still remember.”
Suddenly a little boy of about four ran into him. Red-haired, jacket unzipped, a determined look. He jumped up, brushed himself off, and looked straight at him:
“Dad?”
Andrei froze. He couldn’t get a word out. Everything inside him clenched; his breath caught. The boy came closer, took his hand, and repeated:
“Dad, what, you didn’t recognize me?”
A woman stepped out from behind him. She smiled awkwardly and reached for the child:
“Matvey, that’s not your dad. Come on, don’t bother the gentleman…”
But he pulled away:
“That’s my dad! Mom said he’d find us!”
Andrei stood there, unable to move. He didn’t know how to breathe; he didn’t know whether to trust his eyes. But in the child’s features he recognized himself—the look in the eyes, the shape of the mouth, the stubborn chin.
The woman took the boy and, casting Andrei an anxious glance, said:
“I’m sorry… He says that a lot… He has a vivid imagination,” she muttered, and hurried off.
Andrei remained standing in the park, his heart hammering.
He couldn’t be mistaken. In front of him had been his son.
A week went by, and he couldn’t shake the scene in the park. He scoured social media, searched for clues—to no result. But his certainty that the boy hadn’t lied only grew. And then, once again, fate intervened.
Late in the evening, after stepping out of the office, Andrei ducked into a pharmacy. On the way back, a cry came from an alley. He didn’t have time to understand anything—a sharp blow to the temple, hard and sudden. A mugging. Smashed phone, torn jacket, an ambulance. The ER smelled of medicine; fluorescent lights buzzed.
He was sitting on a cot, pressing ice to his face, when the door opened. A woman in a white coat walked in, flipping through a chart. She didn’t look up at once. Then she froze.
“Andrei?”
He raised his eyes. It was Maria.
She turned pale, but approached. Silently she cleaned the wound, carefully applied a bandage—just as gently as she used to smooth his shirts. Her face stayed composed, but something deep and raw moved in her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked.
“Living,” he answered with a bitter smile. “And you?”
Maria didn’t respond right away. She sat down on a chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her gaze was tired, older—as if in these years she’d lived more than in her whole life before.
“I work here. I live nearby. It’s simple. As always.”
Andrei wanted to ask so much—about everything left unfinished, unsaid. But his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth. Only one thought spun in his head: she’s close… and still so far.
Maria was already drawing away, becoming the doctor again, the professional who no longer belonged to him. She was building a wall between them, as before. Only now Andrei knew: they were no longer strangers.
The next day he couldn’t bear it. He went back to the ER for no reason—just to see her again. She wasn’t there. He left a short note:
“I didn’t know. Talk to me.”
No number, no address. Only his name. And a plea.
Two days dragged by unbearably slowly. Then the phone rang. An unfamiliar woman’s voice trembled:
“This is Maria… I’m sorry it’s not sooner. We… Matvey fell and split his lip. A little blood. I… I don’t even know why I’m calling. It’s just he said, ‘Call Dad.’”
Andrei left at once.
He arrived at an old house on the outskirts. A wooden staircase, peeling paint on the walls. Maria opened the door—tired, in a plain T-shirt, hair hastily tied back. A towel with iodine stains hung over her shoulder. Somewhere deeper in the apartment a child’s voice could be heard.
“He’s in his room. I’ve already treated the cut, but…” she hesitated. “He was waiting for you.”
Andrei went in. In the dim children’s room, Matvey sat on the bed. With a bandaged chin, a book in his hands. He looked up, and there was such recognition in his eyes it felt as though they’d known each other all their lives.
“Dad…”
Andrei sat down beside him. Carefully took his hand. It was warm.
“Did you know?” he whispered, turning to Maria.
“No. Not at first. I found out only after I left. By then it was too late. I was afraid. Ashamed. Angry. And then he grew, and I told him that one day you would come. He believed.”
“I requested a song on the radio…”
Maria nodded. Her lips quivered slightly.
“I heard it. We both cried. And then he said, ‘That was Dad. I just know it.’”
They stood side by side. There were no more lies, no fear, no half-truths. Only their son. And the truth.
A week later the three of them were standing at the door of Andrei’s apartment. It was all real: the squeak of the lock, the smell of old walls, the hum of the refrigerator. Maria held Matvey’s hand. He could hardly contain his excitement—this was a true adventure to him.
Andrei opened the door. The apartment greeted them with silence. He stepped inside, looked back—and for the first time saw living warmth enter these walls. Maria shrugged off her jacket and set her bag by the entrance. The boy raced from room to room, peeking everywhere and then cried out joyfully:
“Mom, there’s ice cream here!”
They laughed. For the first time together. Not because they needed to be polite or hide the hurt—simply because they were together. Here and now.
Maria walked through the kitchen, ran her fingers over the countertop. Everything was in its place—and everything had changed. Andrei came up behind her and gently touched her shoulder. She didn’t pull away.
“Do you think it will work?” she asked quietly.
“If you stay—we’ll make it work.”
She turned to him. At that moment Matvey burst into the kitchen, dragging a pillow and a blanket:
“I’m going to sleep here so I can hear Dad snore!”
Laughter again. Andrei knelt and hugged his son—the very one he hadn’t held in childhood, but whom he now knew he would never let go.
Maria crouched beside them. Their hands touched—and stayed there. No vows, no oaths. Just—together. In a silence with no loneliness in it.
Andrei closed his eyes. Breathed in this air. Felt it: it had happened.
This was happiness.
“I didn’t deserve it. But I was given it. Now I live not because I can—but because I’m with those who once didn’t abandon me. Thank you…”