The memorial gathering was over. The guests who had come to say their goodbyes gradually went home. The neighbors, together with Marina’s mother, put everything in order: they cleared the table, wiped the floor, took out the leftover food. The house grew quiet again. Only Marina remained where she was—motionless, as if frozen in time. Leaning on the table, she stared at a single point, as if trying to find answers there.
“Sweetheart, come stay with me tonight,” Antonina Vasilievna suggested gently, sitting down beside her and touching her hand.
“Mom, take Seryozha and go… I want to be alone for a bit. I need some quiet, okay?” Marina answered, her eyes still fixed on the wooden surface of the table.
Her mother didn’t give in right away. She coaxed her for a long time, repeating that she couldn’t leave calmly, couldn’t bear to leave her daughter alone. But Marina, softly yet firmly, cut her off:
“I’m all right, honestly. I just need to sit a little and process everything. I’m not alone. I’m with him. In my thoughts.”
Antonina Vasilievna hugged her daughter tightly, the way only mothers can, took her grandson, and, saying nothing more, left, carefully locking the door with her key.
And so Marina was left alone.
Alone in the house where his voice had sounded only recently, where his cologne still lingered, where every thing reminded her of him. Voices from the memorial still rang in her head—kind, sincere words about a man everyone had loved. About Vadim: honest, good, reliable. A caring husband, a loving father, a workhorse on whose shoulders you could lay any burden.
Marina knew—it wasn’t just polite praise. No, her Vadim really had been like that. The real thing. A rock she could cling to in any storm.
They had met at the end of winter, when spring was already in the air—the sun had some warmth to it, the snow was beginning to melt, the first puddles appeared. But by evening the temperature dropped, and the sidewalks turned into a slippery trap.
Marina was coming home from work. She already regretted wearing new stiletto boots—just to impress her colleagues. Now she was inching along carefully, trying not to fall.
But she couldn’t keep her footing. Her legs flew out, her bag went flying, a heel snapped. The pain wasn’t in her leg—it was in her pride, in the humiliation of being seen like that.
There was hardly anyone on the street. Only one passerby was approaching—a tall guy in a jacket and a knit cap. He didn’t laugh. He came up, helped her to her feet, handed her the bag.
“Are you all right? Should I call a doctor?”
Home was nearby, but in that state it would be hard to make it on her own. So Marina, a little embarrassed, accepted the stranger’s help. He turned out to be attentive, tactful, not one for needless chatter. Leaning on his arm, she made it to her door… And from that day, it was as if she had stepped into a new life. That’s how their story began.
They married in the summer. Vadim lived in an old house he had inherited from his grandparents. Small, but warm, with a garden and a wooden veranda. That’s where they moved, to build their nest.
He was a long-haul trucker—often on the road, sometimes gone for weeks. But when he came back, he always tried to spend time with the family. He’d bring flowers, or some unusual souvenir from another city. He did the repairs himself, fixed things, built things. And when Seryozha was born—he became a true helper and the boy’s best friend.
Her girlfriends sometimes joked enviously:
“Now that’s a father! On the rides at the park with the kid instead of on the couch with a beer.”
Marina knew she was lucky. Vadim wasn’t just her husband—he was her support, her other half, without whom she couldn’t imagine herself.
And now he was gone.
Sitting in the dark, Marina didn’t turn on the light. It had long since grown dark outside. She just sat there, afraid to disturb the silence, as if any sound might scatter her memories. Then the tears poured like a river. She sobbed, hiccuped, whispered incoherent words, her face buried in her hands.
“Why?.. For what?.. What for?..”
It all happened quickly, unexpectedly, and horribly. A completely healthy, strong forty-year-old man—with a congenital heart defect. No one knew. He was simply walking down the street… and fell. No pain, no goodbyes, no warnings.
He had plans. So much to do. And in a single instant—nothing.
Marina understood that she had to go on living. A new school year had begun; Seryozha had started fifth grade. She went back to work, did homework with her son, cooked, cleaned, did the laundry—she found time for everything. She filled the emptiness as best she could.
For a long time she couldn’t bring herself to touch his things. Everything remained as he had left it. As if he had just stepped out and would be back soon. After a few weeks she finally mustered the strength to sort his clothes and fold them neatly in the wardrobe. She took out the photographs—so familiar, so happy. She reread the cards he had written for every holiday. Simple, warm lines filled with love.
But there was one thing Marina had never touched—the metal safe behind the painting. She didn’t know exactly when it had appeared in the house. She only remembered that it hadn’t been there during the first years of their life together. In the frame hung an ordinary landscape—forest, river, nothing special. But one day, dusting, she accidentally noticed that behind the canvas there was the door of a built-in safe.
“When did he manage that?” she had wondered then.
Most likely during those times when she and Seryozha had gone to visit her parents.
But more than the safe itself, it was Vadim’s reaction that stunned her when she mentioned it in passing:
“Don’t go in there. Don’t even touch it. It’s mine, got it?”
There was such certainty in his voice that Marina was taken aback. She had never heard that tone from him before. She didn’t argue. But now… that safe wouldn’t leave her in peace. What had he kept there? Why did he value it so much? And was she ready to learn the truth?
Back then, that evening, usually calm and even-tempered Vadim had suddenly flared up when Marina accidentally found the safe behind the painting.
“Stay out of there! It’s none of your business! Don’t you dare touch it!” he raised his voice, giving his wife a hard stare.
Marina was stunned. He had never spoken to her like that. They quarreled. The evening passed in tension. But after a couple of days Vadim came back, as always, in peace: he was tender, joked, brought her favorite pastries, and spoke words of love. And Marina, tired of the half-truths, decided not to ask questions. “In the end, everyone has their little secrets,” she thought then.
And the safe disappeared from her thoughts for a long time. Until it forced its way back into her life.
After his death, the mystery surfaced again. What had he guarded so carefully? Why had he been so afraid someone would find out?
And so, in complete silence, Marina walked up to the painting. Carefully she took it down from the wall, set it on the floor, and froze before the safe—massive, heavy, with a combination lock. Opening it without experience would be nearly impossible.
Marina didn’t hesitate long. She found a locksmith online. The next day a man of about fifty arrived with a toolbox. He worked quietly, intently, trying keys, testing combinations. An hour later he wiped his forehead and said:
“All set. You can open it.”
After seeing the locksmith out, Marina returned to the safe. Her heart was pounding as if it wanted to leap out. Taking a deep breath, she swung the door open… and nearly recoiled.
Inside lay neatly arranged folders with documents, some personal items, a stack of papers… and children’s drawings.
First she opened the folder with documents. What she read knocked the ground from under her feet: Vadim owned his own transport company. A dozen trucks, an office in the neighboring city—only twenty kilometers from their home.
“I’ll go there tomorrow,” Marina decided.
Next came a will. She read it several times before the meaning sank in. Two heirs were listed: her son, Sergei Vadimovich Malinovsky… and a certain Darya Vadimovna.
“Who? What Darya?” she whispered, as if hoping the document was mistaken.
Then—a life insurance policy, bank statements, invoices… And at the very bottom—drawings in a child’s hand. Pencil houses, trees, a sun. Under each, uneven letters: “To Dad from Dasha.”
“No… this can’t be,” Marina muttered, feeling her head spin. “He would have told me… He couldn’t have…”
But the facts were ironclad. Besides his family, Vadim had another life. And in that life—another woman. And a child.
In the corner of the safe lay an old button phone. Simple but sturdy. Marina hadn’t seen it before. The battery was dead, but she found the charger. Plugging it in, she sat down nearby to wait.
When the phone turned on, Marina absentmindedly tried “0000”—no password was required. The screen filled with notifications: 27 missed calls from a contact named “Irishka.” Her hands trembled. Marina opened the gallery.
The photos hurt more than any words: a woman around thirty by a flowering tree. A little girl on a carousel. The same girl holding a kitten. Then—Vadim, embracing that woman. With the child. With the cat. Family shots. Real. Alive.
Marina dropped the phone as if it had burned her.
That night turned out to be the longest of Marina’s life. Her thoughts fluttered like a flock of frightened birds. Now the tears choked her, now the anger swelled.
“How could you? I trusted you!”
“You played soccer with Seryozha, went to the park with us, and then you drove to her… to that Irishka… to another family… to another daughter…” she almost shouted into the darkness.
In the morning Marina dialed the number that had appeared so often on the screen.
“We need to meet. Today. At the café on the main square. Come. It’s important.”
The city was very close—about twenty kilometers away. That was where Vadim’s company was located. Marina decided to start there.
She was shown into the director’s office. The man introduced himself simply—Denis.
He turned out to be an old acquaintance of Vadim’s. Their friendship went back years, shared projects, loyal conversations. Then they lost touch, but seven years ago fate brought them together again. Denis was looking for work and stumbled on a posting from a company owned by Vadim. And, as if mocking time, he ended up at his side again.
Vadim trusted him completely. The company grew, Denis became the manager. But beyond business, they shared personal things too—the kind you don’t tell just anyone.
“I knew everything,” he said quietly to Marina, as if afraid to wound her. “About Ira. About Dasha. He didn’t want to deceive anyone, but… he couldn’t choose. He said: ‘I love Marina, I love Seryozha. But Dasha is my blood, too. I can’t turn my back on that. How can you choose between your right and left hand? If you cut one off—I’ll stop living.’”
Marina listened. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shout. Only inside, everything was collapsing.
“He really suffered, Marina,” Denis continued softly. “I saw it. He didn’t want to deceive anyone… he was just afraid to cause pain. He kept saying, ‘I love Marina, I love Seryozha. But I love Dasha… and Ira, too. How can I choose just one? It’s like deciding which hand to live with—right or left. If I cut one off, I won’t survive.’”
Marina exhaled slowly, as if trying to stay afloat.
“I know how hard this is to hear…” Denis said. “But he loved you all. Truly. He just didn’t know how to set everything right. He didn’t dare. Forgive him if you can…”
A year passed. Two women stood before the granite monument with Vadim’s black-and-white portrait. In their hands—identical carnations. Silently, they laid the flowers on the stone. In the photo Vadim seemed to be smiling—not falsely, but genuinely, with a kind, slightly wistful warmth in his eyes.
Over that year, Marina and Ira had become… not friends, no. But they were no longer enemies.
At first they were connected only by formalities: processing paperwork, dividing property, legal procedures. In his will, Vadim had divided everything equally between the children. Their communication began strictly on business.
“Only on business,” Marina had said then, promising herself not to cross paths more than necessary.
But over time, their tones softened. They discovered they had a lot in common: views on raising children, an attitude toward simple living, even their taste in films matched. A cautious respect grew between them. And then—understanding. Subtle, almost invisible, but real.
Seryozha took the news of having a sister more calmly than Marina had imagined.
“So that means I’m the older brother now,” he said one day. “I’ll have to protect her.”
With each year he became more and more like Vadim: calm, thoughtful, with a character that was hard to break. And the stubbornness, of course, he inherited from his father.
Dasha, for her part, adored drawing. Each of her pictures was like a small letter, filled with light and love. She especially often drew an orange cat named Baton—the very one Vadim had brought her when the girl was ill. He had said then:
“If he stays with you, you’re sure to get well.”
And she did. The very next day she was running around the house like before.
Life, as it turned out, isn’t divided into black and white. It’s more like watercolor—with blurred edges, soft transitions, half tones. Vadim lied. Yes, he hid a whole part of himself. But not out of a desire to betray. He simply didn’t know how to be otherwise. And two women who truly loved him managed to understand that complexity.
They had met in a situation you could call a tragedy. But it was precisely his death that became the boundary that untied the knot Vadim had never dared to cut while alive.
Antonina Vasilievna, Marina’s mother, could not accept such a turn of events.
“How can you talk to her?!” she protested. “Have some self-respect, daughter! She took your husband, bore him a child, and lived in peace. And now you greet her as if nothing happened?”
Marina didn’t argue. She only smiled gently and replied:
“Mom, our children have the same father. They should know each other. Everything else isn’t the main thing.”
“It’s not right. You’re too soft,” Antonina sighed.
But Marina walked her own path. She made her choice consciously.
And which of them is right—no one dares to judge. Because everyone decides for themselves. And no one knows what they would do in her place. Where no decision seems right. Where the heart is torn, yet you choose not revenge—but understanding.
Because that isn’t weakness. It’s strength.