Yulia woke up early. Outside the window, a fine autumn rain was falling, and gray clouds hung low, almost touching the roofs of the high-rises. But the young woman’s mood was buoyant—today was Vera’s wedding, Alexey’s sister. An event the whole family had been preparing for for months.
Four years earlier, Yulia had married Alexey. They met at work—both were employed at a large trading company: he in logistics, she in accounting. He courted her for a long time, patiently, without pressure. They had a modest wedding with only their closest people. They lived in a rented apartment and saved for a down payment on a mortgage. Their relationship was even and calm—no storms, no fiery passion, but no major conflicts either.
The only problem was Alexey’s relatives. His parents lived in another city, so they rarely saw each other. But Vera, his younger sister, was a constant presence in their lives. She was three years younger than her brother, worked as an administrator at a dental clinic, and rented a studio nearby.
From their very first meeting, Vera looked at Yulia in an appraising way—not openly hostile, but without warmth either. As if she were studying whether her sister-in-law was worthy of their family.
“So where are you from?” Vera asked at their first shared dinner.
“Voronezh. I moved here after university.”
“I see.” Vera nodded, but her tone carried something unclear—not condemnation, but not approval either.
After that, Vera kept her distance. She would come over, but mostly talked to her brother. Yulia received only polite, routine phrases. Whenever Yulia tried to join in, Vera answered briefly, then turned back to Alexey.
Over time, the aloofness turned into barbed remarks. Nothing direct, nothing openly rude—just hints and half-jokes that left a bitter aftertaste.
“Lyosh, you’re lucky Yulia’s so domestic,” Vera would say, looking around their kitchen. “Though she could learn to cook better. But oh well—at least she tries.”
Or:
“Yul, you actually don’t look bad. For your age. Though you could hit the gym a bit, tone up.”
Yulia stayed quiet. She didn’t want to argue. Alexey didn’t intervene either—he acted like he didn’t notice. A couple of times Yulia tried to talk to him privately.
“Lyosh, your sister is constantly making little digs. Could you ask Vera to be gentler?”
“Oh, come on. That’s just her personality. Vera’s like that with everyone. Don’t pay attention.”
“But it hurts.”
“Tanya, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. She doesn’t mean it. She just doesn’t think sometimes before she speaks.”
Yulia didn’t bring it up again. She decided if her husband didn’t see a problem, then maybe she really was overreacting. Maybe Vera didn’t mean to offend her. Maybe she just joked badly.
About three months ago, Vera announced she was getting married. Her fiancé was Igor, a construction engineer; they met through mutual friends. Vera was glowing, showing off a ring with a small diamond and making plans.
Yulia was genuinely happy. She thought maybe after the wedding their relationship would improve—Vera would have her own family and her own worries, and she wouldn’t have time for snide comments.
Yulia started preparing early. She bought a beautiful dark-blue dress, just below the knee—elegant. She ordered matching shoes. She chose a gift: an expensive set of dishes Vera had once mentioned in passing. She packed everything in a white box with silver ribbons.
A week before the wedding, Yulia called Vera.
“Hi! I wanted to уточнить—what time does the registration start? And where will the reception be?”
“Registration is at two in the afternoon. Reception is at a restaurant on Sadovaya,” Vera answered dryly.
“Great. Lyosha and I will definitely be there.”
“Yeah.”
Vera hung up. Yulia frowned. Cold. But she decided not to dwell on it—surely the bride was just nervous before the big day.
The day before the celebration, Yulia laid out her things—the dress, the shoes, her makeup bag. Alexey sat in the living room watching a series. She went over and sat beside him.
“Tomorrow’s a big day. Nervous?”
“A little. It’s still my sister getting married.”
“Yes, it’s an important event. I’m really happy for Vera. Igor’s a good guy.”
Alexey nodded but didn’t say anything. His gaze slid over Yulia and went back to the screen. Yulia waited a moment, then got up and went to the bedroom. Something about his behavior unsettled her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.
Morning started with an anxious alarm. Yulia got up at eight, even though they only needed to leave around one. She wanted to do everything calmly, without rushing. Shower, hair, makeup—everything had to be perfect.
Alexey woke up later, around nine. He ate breakfast in silence, then went to the bathroom. Meanwhile, Yulia took out her curling iron and began curling her hair. The curls fell in soft waves, shiny in the light.
On the table in the living room stood the gift: the white box with silver ribbons. Elegant and festive. Yulia smiled at it, hoping Vera would like it.
Alexey came out of the bathroom and walked into the bedroom. Yulia heard him open the closet and take out clothes. A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway—white shirt, dark trousers—fastening his cufflinks, frowning.
“Lyosh, want me to help?” Yulia offered.
“No, I can handle it.”
Yulia continued styling her hair. Alexey went to the hallway mirror and stood in front of it. Silent. Yulia saw him out of the corner of her eye—straightening his collar, smoothing his shirt. His face was tense, lips pressed together.
“Are you worried?” she asked, setting down the curling iron.
“No. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
He didn’t answer right away. He kept staring at his reflection. Then he turned and looked at her. Something flickered in his eyes—embarrassment? Discomfort?
“Vera asked that you not come. Don’t ruin her day,” he said evenly, like he was reading a weather forecast.
Yulia froze. A hand holding a bobby pin hovered in the air. For several seconds she just stared at Alexey, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
“What?”
“Vera doesn’t want you at the wedding. She asked me to tell you.”
“Why?”
Alexey shrugged.
“I don’t know. She said it would be better that way.”
Yulia slowly lowered her hand. The bobby pin slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. She didn’t pick it up. She stared at her husband, trying to catch even a hint of emotion in his face. But Alexey remained calm, as if this were ordinary.
“Lyosh… is this some kind of joke?”
“No. Vera’s serious.”
“But why? What did I do to her?”
“No idea. She just asked.”
“And you agreed?”
“What else am I supposed to do? It’s her wedding. If my sister wants it, there must be reasons.”
Yulia stood up and walked closer, stopping a meter away, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Alexey, do you seriously think this is normal?”
“I think the bride has the right to decide who comes to her wedding.”
“I’m your wife!”
“I know. But Vera’s my sister. And if she feels calmer…”
“Calmer?!” Yulia’s voice cracked. “Calmer from what—without me?!”
Alexey turned away and looked back into the mirror, adjusting his collar even though it was already perfect.
“I don’t know, Yul. Maybe she just doesn’t want extra people. Small wedding—only the closest.”
“Extra people,” Yulia repeated, the words catching in her throat and scraping on the way out.
“Listen, try to understand. Vera always dreamed of an intimate wedding. About thirty people, no more. Parents, close friends. That’s it.”
“I am close. I’m your brother’s wife.”
“Brother’s wife,” Alexey corrected quietly. “Not a sister, not a friend. A wife.”
Yulia stepped back as if she’d been slapped. Her breathing went uneven; her eyes stung. But she didn’t want to cry—she wanted to scream, demand explanations. Instead, she stood there and watched as her husband continued fastening his cufflinks like nothing had happened.
“So you’re just going without me?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t care how I feel?”
Alexey finally looked at her. Annoyance flashed in his eyes.
“Yulia, don’t make a scene. This isn’t about you. Vera wants to celebrate calmly. Without… tension.”
“What tension?!”
“I don’t know! Maybe she’s afraid you’ll fight. Or something else. I can’t read my sister’s mind.”
“We’ve never fought!”
“Great. Then there’s no reason for conflict. Just stay home, rest. I’ll be back in the evening and tell you everything.”
Yulia backed up until she felt the wall against her shoulder blades, the chill of the wallpaper seeping through her thin robe.
“You understand this is humiliating?”
“What’s humiliating? Nobody’s humiliating you. You just weren’t invited.”
“It’s your sister’s wedding! I should be there!”
“No, you shouldn’t. Vera decided otherwise.”
Alexey buttoned the last cuff and glanced at the time.
“I have to go. I still need to pick up the flowers.”
He walked past her, grabbed his jacket from the hook, put it on, straightened it. He turned back. Yulia stood by the wall, staring at him with wide eyes—confusion, pain, disbelief written across her face.
“Yul, don’t sulk. I’ll be back—we’ll talk calmly.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she answered quietly.
Alexey shrugged, opened the door, and left. The lock clicked softly—final. Yulia stood in the hallway, alone, in a half-empty apartment that ten minutes ago had been filled with celebratory bustle.
On the table stood the white box with silver ribbons—the gift for Vera. Beautiful, expensive, and pointless. Yulia picked it up. Heavy. Inside, the expensive dishes she’d spent two hours choosing, reading reviews, comparing prices.
Her hands tightened around the box. She desperately wanted to hurl it against the wall—to hear glass shatter, to see shards scatter across the floor. But instead, she set it back down carefully and went into the bedroom.
The dress hung on a hanger—dark blue, elegant, beautiful, bought especially for today. Yulia took it off the hanger and placed it back in the closet, then put the shoes beside it and shut the door.
She sat on the bed, hands on her knees, staring at one point. Her breath was steady, calm. But inside, a hurricane raged—thoughts, questions, doubts.
Why didn’t Vera want her at the wedding? What had Yulia done wrong? Was there really some fight she’d forgotten? Had she said something wrong?
But no matter how she sifted through her memory, nothing specific surfaced. Vera was always cold, always sharp. That was the norm. Yulia had gotten used to it.
And her husband… Alexey had simply walked away. No regret, no attempt to protect his wife, not even a pretense of understanding. As if this was how it should be—as if his wife were a secondary person whose feelings could be ignored.
Yulia closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled slowly—again and again. Her pulse began to slow, and her thoughts lined up into a clear chain.
So. Vera didn’t want her at the wedding; Alexey agreed. Without discussion, without trying to fix it—he just took his sister’s side.
What did that mean? That Yulia was nobody to him? That four years of marriage meant nothing next to his younger sister’s whim?
Yulia opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror—messy hair, pale face, red eyes. A pitiful sight.
No. This couldn’t go on. She couldn’t sit there and pity herself. She needed to do something. But what?
She got up, paced the room, then returned to the living room and picked up her phone. She stared at the screen for a long time, then dialed her mother.
“Mom, hi.”
“Yulia! How are you, sweetheart?”
“Fine. Mom, can I come to you? Today.”
“Of course! What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’ll leave in an hour.”
“Okay, I’ll be waiting. I’ll bake your favorite pie.”
Yulia hung up, took a deep breath, went into the bedroom, and started packing a bag.
But she stopped halfway, frozen in the middle of the room with a sweater in her hands. No. Not to her mom. Not now. Right now she needed to be alone—to think, to process what happened.
She put the bag back in the closet, returned to the living room, sat on the couch, and turned on the TV just for background noise. A comedy was playing; people laughed and joked. Yulia watched without seeing.
Her chest tightened, but not from hurt—from realization. Alexey hadn’t even tried to defend her. He hadn’t told Vera it was wrong. He hadn’t suggested talking or figuring out the reason. He simply accepted his sister’s decision as fact, as inevitable.
And that was the most painful part. Not Vera’s rejection—Yulia had long understood the sister didn’t like her. But Alexey’s indifference: cold, calm, everyday, as if his wife were a piece of furniture that could be moved, hidden, put away if it got in the way.
Yulia looked at the gift box again—white, festive, with silver ribbons. Bought with love, wrapped with care. Unneeded.
She stood, walked to the table, and picked up the box. Heavy. Expensive. A symbol of how she’d tried to fit into someone else’s family—to be liked, to become “one of them.”
And in return—silent rejection. For years. Regularly. And now the final blow: not even being allowed to attend a family celebration.
Yulia set the box back down carefully, gently, as if saying goodbye.
The clock on the wall showed half past twelve. Soon Alexey would come back for the gift. She needed to collect her thoughts—decide what to say, how to act.
But by the time the key turned in the lock around one o’clock, Yulia already knew exactly what she would say.
Alexey walked in and looked at his wife—she was sitting on the couch in her robe, no makeup, hair loose.
“You didn’t get ready?”
“No.”
“Good. So you understood.” He walked to the table and picked up the gift box.
Yulia stood and came closer. She looked Alexey in the eyes for a long time, carefully, as if seeing him for the first time—studying the face that had felt familiar for four years.
And now it felt чужое. Alien.
“Tell Vera—may she be happy,” Yulia said calmly.
Alexey nodded, tucked the box under his arm, and headed for the door. He paused.
“Don’t be upset, okay? It’s just one day. Tomorrow everything will be like usual.”
“No, Alexey. It won’t.”
He frowned.
“What do you mean it won’t?”
“I mean nothing will be like usual. Never again.”
“Yul, don’t make drama out of one wedding.”
“I’m not making drama. I just realized something important.”
“What?”
Yulia stepped closer, standing directly in front of him. She spoke quietly, evenly, without emotion.
“That to you, I’m nobody. That your sister matters more than your wife. That four years of marriage mean nothing if Vera doesn’t like something.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“No. It’s the truth. And I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
Alexey pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“Fine. We’ll talk when I get back. I don’t have time now.”
He left. The door slammed. Yulia remained in the hallway as silence settled over the apartment—thick like a blanket. But not oppressive. Clear, almost cleansing, as if the air had been purified, lighter.
She suddenly felt a strange relief—like something чужое and heavy had been carried out of the house, something that had pressed on her shoulders for years. And now she could exhale. Straighten. Look around with fresh eyes.
Yulia went into the kitchen, made coffee, and sat by the window. The rain had stopped, and the sun came out—rare for autumn. Rays broke through the clouds and lit up the wet trees in the courtyard.
She drank her coffee slowly, in small sips. She thought. Planned. Decided.
By evening, the plan was ready—clear, concrete, without doubt.
She took her phone and called her friend.
“Olya, hi.”
“Yul! How was the wedding? Tell me everything!”
“I wasn’t at the wedding. Listen, can I come stay with you for a few days?”
“Of course! What happened?”
“I’ll explain later. I’ll come tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be waiting. The room’s free—make yourself at home.”
Yulia hung up, got up, went to the bedroom, took out a large bag, and began packing methodically and calmly—clothes, shoes, cosmetics, documents. Everything essential.
Alexey came home late, around midnight—drunk, cheerful, loud. Yulia sat in the kitchen drinking tea. He peeked in.
“Oh, you’re still awake! How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“The wedding was great! Vera looked beautiful! Igor did an amazing job—everything was top-notch. Too bad you didn’t see it.”
“Yes. Too bad.”
Alexey went to the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed without undressing. A minute later he was snoring.
Yulia finished her tea, washed the cup, went into the living room, and lay down on the couch under a blanket. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, then closed her eyes and fell asleep.
In the morning she woke up early. Alexey was still asleep. Yulia packed the last things, got dressed, and wrote a short note: “Went to Olya’s. I’ll be back in a few days. We need to talk seriously.”
She left the note on the kitchen table, picked up her bag, and quietly walked out without slamming the door.
At Olya’s it was peaceful. Her friend didn’t ask unnecessary questions—she simply offered tea, showed her the room, and said Yulia could stay as long as she wanted.
Yulia spent two days thinking. She walked around the city, sat in cafés, read. She thought about the past—how many times she swallowed her hurt, stayed quiet when she wanted to answer, excused Alexey, Vera, the whole family.
And in return—indifference. Coldness. Rejection.
On the third day, Yulia made a decision—final and irreversible.
She came home on Tuesday evening. Alexey was on the couch watching soccer.
“Oh, you’re back. How was the trip?”
“Fine. Alexey, we need to talk.”
“After the match?”
“No. Now.”
Reluctantly, he turned off the TV and faced her.
“Well? Talk.”
“I want a divorce.”
Alexey froze. For a few seconds he was silent, processing.
“What?”
“I’m filing for divorce. Tomorrow I’m going to the registry office to submit the application.”
“Yul, what are you doing? Because of that wedding?”
“Not because of the wedding. Because of everything. Because for four years I tried to become part of your family. And they didn’t want me there. At best, they tolerated me.”
“Come on! Everyone treats you нормально.”
“No, Alexey. Your sister despises me, and you ignore it. You pretend nothing is happening.”
“Vera’s just like that. Strong personality. But she’s not a bad person.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want to live with constant barbs anymore. And most of all—I don’t want to live with a man who isn’t willing to protect me.”
Alexey got up and paced the room, then stopped by the window.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“And nothing will change your mind?”
“No.”
He turned around. Anger flashed in his eyes.
“You know what? Do whatever you want. Maybe it’s better this way. I’m tired of your grievances. You’re always dissatisfied with something.”
“Fine. Then we agree.”
“Yeah. We agree.”
Alexey went into the bedroom, slamming the door. Yulia stayed in the living room, sat down, took out her phone, found the address of the nearest registry office, and booked an appointment for the next day.
In the morning she woke up early, got dressed, ate breakfast. Alexey was still asleep. Yulia wrote another note: “Went to file for divorce. The apartment is rented; the lease is in my name. You can stay until the end of the month. After that, please move out.”
She left the note in a visible place, took a folder with documents, and left.
The registry office was quiet. The clerk accepted the paperwork and explained the procedure: in a month, the divorce would be finalized.
“Does your husband agree?” the woman asked.
“Yes. We’ve agreed on everything.”
“Good. Then come back in a month to sign the record. That’s all.”
Yulia walked out and stopped on the steps, breathing in the cool autumn air—fresh, smelling of rain and fallen leaves.
Inside, she felt calm. No torment, no doubt—only clarity. The understanding that the decision was right.
The next month flew by. Alexey moved out a week later. He packed silently, without saying goodbye. Yulia didn’t stop him. She even helped pack the boxes.
On the appointed day, she came to the registry office, signed the document, and received the divorce certificate. That was it. Free.
She returned home, sat on the couch, and looked around. The apartment seemed bigger, brighter—as if the walls had moved apart and the ceilings lifted.
Yulia smiled for the first time in many weeks—truly, lightly.
Life went on. Work, friends, hobbies. Gradually the pain faded into calm acceptance. The divorce wasn’t an end—it was a beginning: a new life where she didn’t have to bend, endure, or justify.
A year passed. Autumn returned again. Yulia walked through a park, admiring the yellow-red trees. Her phone buzzed—a message from Olya: “Call me urgently! There’s news!”
Yulia dialed.
“Olya, what happened?”
“Listen, I ran into Natasha, remember? She worked with Alexey.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well! Alexey got married again! Six months ago! Can you believe it?”
Yulia stopped in the middle of the path. Something pricked inside—but not painfully. More like curiosity.
“Really? And how’s it going?”
“That’s the thing—Natasha says the new wife couldn’t take it and left a month ago! Want to know why?”
“I can guess.”
“Vera! That damn Vera kept meddling in their lives—making scenes, making demands! The new wife packed her things and left! Said: living with your sister is impossible! And you know the funniest part?”
“What?”
“Alexey lives with Vera now! She took him in—comforting her brother after the divorce!” Olya giggled. “So yeah—karma, Yul. Pure karma.”
Yulia smirked, quietly.
“Yeah. Sounds like it.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No. Actually it’s the opposite.”
“The opposite?”
“Yes. Now I know for sure—leaving that home wasn’t a loss. It was спасение. It saved me.”
Olya fell silent, then said warmly:
“You did the right thing, Yul. Truly.”
“Thanks. Listen, want to meet up today? Sit somewhere, talk?”
“Let’s do it! Seven o’clock at the coffee shop on Lenina?”
“Deal.”
Yulia ended the call, slipped the phone into her pocket, and looked at the trees—yellow leaves swirling in the air. She smiled.
Alexey married again and divorced again—because of the same Vera who had poisoned Yulia’s life for years. Now she poisoned the next wife’s life too, and she will probably poison the next one. Because Vera won’t change. And Alexey won’t learn to protect the people close to him from his sister.
But that wasn’t Yulia’s problem anymore. That was their life—their choices, their mistakes.
Yulia had her own life now—calm and bright, without someone else’s pressure and humiliation. A life where she decided who to talk to, who to let into her space, who to trust.
She stepped forward, down the alley, toward the autumn sun breaking through golden leaves—walking confidently and lightly, without looking back