Oksana didn’t realize right away that it was him. At first she only noticed a silhouette on the bench by the entrance—hunched, tense, irritated, as if he’d been splashed with gray paint.
But when the car she was riding in rolled to a smooth stop by the building, the silhouette jerked to its feet and started waving, like he was swatting away gnats.
She stepped out, adjusted her coat, took a huge bouquet of roses in her hands—and only then recognized the face.
“Kostya?” Her voice was colder than the November wind.
Her ex-husband stood up and, without even trying to hide his disgust, said:
“I need the documents. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting an hour!”
Oksana glanced lazily at her roses, then at him.
“I told you on the phone I wouldn’t be home. You’re the one who decided to sit here freezing.”
“Who are the flowers from?” Kostya grimaced as if the bouquet insulted him.
“None of your business.”
Oksana walked past him smoothly without offering him a way in. Her calm only made him angrier, and he finally snapped:
“I’m coming in anyway. I have to pick up the documents.”
“You can come in. But only for the documents,” she cut him off.
They went upstairs—and Kostya stopped dead the moment he stepped inside.
The apartment gleamed: designer furniture, new curtains, soft warm lighting.
“What kind of palace is this?” he asked, almost threateningly. “Where’d you get the money?”
“Did you get the documents?” Oksana asked evenly.
“Don’t dodge the question. I want to know who’s paying for all this!”
“It’s none of your concern anymore. And yours—least of all.”
She practically pushed him out the door. Kostya blinked in confusion, like he’d been punched in the gut.
When the door slammed, he hissed:
“As if anyone needs you… at your age…”
But deep down, something stirred—fear he wouldn’t admit: she interested him again.
Oksana remembered the day everything fell apart—and, at the same time, set her free.
That day she came home at lunchtime: her blood pressure had dropped, her head was spinning. She opened the door—and heard laughter. A man’s. And a woman’s, bright and ringing.
She approached the bedroom, and her heart fluttered like it had been thrown into a washing machine on spin cycle.
“Kristina, stop… she could come back,” she heard a muffled male voice. “What are you doing… fine, just quick…”
And then—moans.
Oksana opened the door. Before her eyes: a young third-year student—practically a girl—half-undressed, and Kostya, who didn’t even try to jump away or cover himself.
“Well, that’s it, Oksana Andreyevna, now you know everything,” he smirked. “If you want, get a divorce. I don’t mind.”
“Konstantin Pavlovich… we…” the student stammered.
“Shut up. Everything will be fine,” he snapped at her.
Then he turned to his wife and said:
“You’ve known for a long time that you and I… well, it’s been so-so. Let’s do this the easy way.”
Oksana didn’t say anything. She just walked to the closet, started throwing his things onto the floor, and said only one thing:
“Get out.”
Back then he acted like a winner.
“You’ll be nothing without me!”
“I’ll take our daughter from you!”
“I’ll tell everyone you cheated on me!”
Now, three months later, he was standing under her door with a huge bouquet and the eyes of a beaten dog.
“Oksana, did you hear what he’s saying about you?” her best friend Olesya fumed.
“I heard,” Oksana smiled, pouring herself tea.
“He’s telling people you cheated! That he left you because you’re a shameless drunk!”
Oksana laughed so sincerely that even her friend fell silent.
“Let him say whatever he wants. The people who know me will never believe it. The rest don’t matter.”
“But he’s smearing you everywhere—at work, with acquaintances…”
“Olesya,” she looked her straight in the eyes, “it doesn’t hurt me anymore. He’s the past. I’m finally living normally.”
“You’ve changed,” her friend sighed. “You look younger, prettier… like you finally started breathing.”
“Know why?” Oksana smirked. “Because there’s no longer a person at home who tells me every day how worthless I am.”
Kostya sat in his friend’s kitchen, nervously dunking a tea bag in his mug.
“Can you believe it—some jerk brought her flowers!” he complained. “And she renovated. And she’s going on dates!”
“So what? You’re divorced,” his friend shrugged.
“That’s not the point!” Kostya raised his voice. “She’s… she’s my ex-wife. How does that look?”
“Like an independent woman moving on with her life.”
“She never… she without me…” He trailed off.
His friend gave a faint smile.
“So that’s it. You thought she’d fall apart without you?”
Kostya slammed his palm on the table.
“She was supposed to sit alone! She’s got a kid, her age… who needs her?!”
“Looks like someone does,” his friend snorted.
Kostya felt his whole world drop out from under him. He remembered Kristina—pretty, but useless. It was fun for a couple months, but living together? She couldn’t even fry eggs.
And Oksana had always been reliable. Cozy. Homey. Quiet. And somewhere deep inside he knew: she was the only person who truly loved him.
He just hadn’t valued it then.
The next day Kostya came to her door again—wearing a clean shirt, hair slicked with gel, and a lush bouquet of roses like he was headed to a first date.
He rang the bell.
Oksana opened a minute later—calm, collected, confident.
“What do you want?”
“This is for you,” he tried to offer the bouquet.
“Take it back. I’m allergic to clowns.”
“I came… well… to make up,” he mumbled.
“With who?”
“With you!”
“But we’re divorced.”
“So what? We can start over.”
She laughed—not hurt this time, almost pitying.
“Konstantin, three months ago you were throwing me out, yelling that nobody needs me.”
“Well…” He swallowed. “I lost my temper.”
“You cheated on me for years.”
“It… well… it wasn’t serious.”
“You humiliated me.”
“I was wrong.”
“You said my daughter and I would fall apart without you.”
“Well, back then I…”
“Kostya. You want to say you understand everything now?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, trying to look sincere.
“Let’s try again. I’ll be different. I swear.”
“No, Kostya—you didn’t get it. I became different.”
He wanted to say something, but at that moment a man’s voice came from the room:
“Oksan, who’s that?”
Kostya froze.
A tall, broad-shouldered man walked out, tying the belt of his robe.
“Trouble?” he asked calmly, looking at Kostya.
“Who… is that?” her ex whispered.
“My man,” Oksana replied evenly. “And you… are the past.”
Kostya felt the world slide downhill. He lowered the bouquet. The roses fell to the floor like severed heads.
“You leaving on your own?” the man asked. “Or should I help?”
Kostya instinctively backed away.
“And take your broom with you!” Oksana called after him as he ran down the stairs.
He didn’t stop.
Outside, Kostya sat on the same bench where he’d waited an hour earlier. In his hand he squeezed a crushed rose stem.
“How could she?..” he thought.
But there was only one truth: he himself destroyed everything he had.
He drove her to tears, then to despair, and then—to a decision that changed her life for the better.
He remembered what he used to call her:
— a chicken;
— a hysteric;
— worthless;
— ugly;
— a woman no one would ever be interested in.
And now beside her was a man who looked at her the way Kostya never once had.
“What a shame…” he whispered.
But regret came too late.
Oksana stood at her apartment window, watching him leave. There was no anger on her face, no gloating—only a faint sadness.
“So many years wasted,” she said quietly.
But as she closed the window, she smiled—because for the first time in many years she felt free, desired, and truly alive