— You… you were supposed to have flown away.
— No. Marina flew with Andrey. I stayed. To see with my own eyes what I already knew.
— Vera, wait. It’s not what you think.
— Yegor, I’m not thinking. I know. I’ve known for three weeks. The old push-button phone in the sneaker box. All your messages. Every single word.
— Where are my things?
— On the landing. Your mistress’s things are there too.
— You went through my phone?! This is your fault!
— Lower your voice, Yegor.
Vera had packed two suitcases the evening before. Carefully, according to a list: sunscreen, sundresses, the book she had been putting off for half a year. The tickets to Antalya lay on the nightstand, and there were exactly eighteen hours left before the flight.
Yegor came into the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his palms together. Vera immediately felt it — something was wrong. He always rubbed his hands like that when he was about to say something she would not like.
“Vera, I’ve been thinking… I won’t be able to fly.”
“What do you mean, you won’t be able to? You were the one who started all this. For two months you kept saying we needed a break, that we were tired of each other, that the sun would fix everything.”
“I know. But the circumstances have changed. I need to be here this week. Listen, I’ve thought it through — let Mom fly with you. She could use a vacation too.”
Vera slowly lowered herself into the armchair. She looked at Yegor, trying to understand whether he was serious. Two months of persuasion, hotel reservations, choosing a room with a sea view — and now this, eighteen hours before departure?
“You’re suggesting I fly with Tamara Nikolaevna? Instead of my husband?”
“What’s wrong with that? Mom will be happy. She hasn’t been anywhere in ages.”
“Yegor, this was our vacation. Ours. You and me. You promised me.”
He stood up, walked over to the window, and clasped his hands behind his back. He said nothing. Vera waited for at least some explanation, at least a trace of guilt in his voice. But his tone was even, almost indifferent.
“Promises aren’t contracts, Vera. Life changes.”
She called Tamara Nikolaevna herself. Not because she wanted to travel with her mother-in-law, but because she hoped his mother might say to him what he refused to hear from his wife. Maybe she would bring him back to his senses.
“Tamara Nikolaevna, Yegor suggested that you fly to Turkey with me. Instead of him.”
“Verochka, I won’t fly. Not because I don’t want to. I feel that something is happening between you two, and I shouldn’t get involved. But know this — I’m on your side, whatever happens.”
“Thank you. I needed to hear that right now.”
“Just don’t stay silent. Don’t swallow your pain. He is my son, and I love him, but I am not blind.”
Vera ended the call. Bitterness spread through her — warm, thick, like hardened wax. Then she dialed her sister.
“Marina, can you come to me tomorrow morning?”
“What happened?”
“Yegor refused to fly. I need your help. But not in the way you think.”
Marina arrived at seven in the morning. Vera had not slept. She was sitting in the kitchen with cold tea and a plan that had formed somewhere between three and five a.m. Yegor was still asleep in the guest room — he had moved there the previous evening, supposedly so he “wouldn’t disturb her while she packed.”
“Tell me everything,” Marina said, sitting across from her and taking her hand.
“I’m not flying, Marina.”
“What do you mean you’re not flying? You have the tickets.”
“We’ll change the tickets. You’ll fly with Andrey. The second ticket is in a man’s name, we’ll reissue it. That won’t be a problem. And I’ll stay here.”
“Vera, explain properly. What’s going on?”
Vera set down her cup and looked her sister straight in the eyes. Her gaze was calm, but behind that calm there was something that made Marina shiver.
“Three weeks ago, I found his second phone. An old push-button one, hidden in a shoe box in the storage room. It had messages. With Diana.”
“With Diana? Your Diana? The one who’s married to Kirill?”
“My Diana. Married to Kirill. The same one who sat at our table on New Year’s Eve and made toasts to strong families. Yes, her.”
Marina leaned back in her chair. For a few seconds she said nothing, trying to absorb what she had heard. Then she clenched her jaw so hard the muscles stood out on her cheeks.
“I’ll kill him.”
“No. You’ll fly to Turkey. And I’ll handle everything myself. I don’t need anyone to decide this for me. This is my life, my home, and my husband. My ex-husband — as of today.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
Vera explained the plan. Marina listened without interrupting. Then she hugged her sister — briefly, tightly — and left to get Andrey. Four hours later, they were already at the airport.
Yegor woke up around noon. He came out, sleepy, his face creased from the pillow. He saw Vera by the door with a suitcase and forced a smile.
“Leaving?”
“I’m leaving. With Marina. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. Get some rest. You need it.”
“I need many things, Yegor. But thanks for your concern.”
She kissed him on the cheek — dryly, the way people kiss strangers — and walked out. The door closed softly, without a slam. Yegor stood in the hallway and smiled. He was sure everything had gone smoothly.
Vera went down two floors to her neighbor Nina Pavlovna, with whom she had been friends for four years. The older woman was already waiting with a folding bed and tea.
“Come in, Verochka. I prepared everything, just as you asked.”
“Thank you, Nina Pavlovna. I just need to wait until evening. Only until evening.”
Yegor called Diana at exactly four o’clock. Vera knew he always called her at that time. Through the wall, she heard the upstairs apartment door slam, then the sharp sound of heels on the stairs. Diana arrived at seven.
Vera sat at Nina Pavlovna’s and counted the hours. She waited. She was not nervous — she had already gone through all the stages. Hurt, pain, disappointment — all of it had burned away three weeks earlier, when she had read those messages under the dim light in the storage room. What remained was a cold, clear, ringing decision.
At eleven that night, she went back up to her apartment door. She had a key. She entered quietly, in soft sneakers. The apartment was dark. From the bedroom came the steady breathing of two people. A man and a woman.
Vera switched on the hallway light. Methodically, without one unnecessary emotion, she opened Yegor’s wardrobe and began stuffing his clothes into garbage bags. Shirts, jeans, jackets, belts. Everything went into black plastic bags. Then she found Diana’s handbag in the hallway, her shoes, her coat — all of it went out the door and onto the landing.
She worked for forty minutes. Calmly. Precisely. Like a surgeon.
Then she called Tamara Nikolaevna.
“Tamara Nikolaevna, can you come over? Right now.”
“Verochka, it’s half past eleven…”
“I know. I need a witness. Not a defender, not a judge — a witness. Your son is in our bed with another woman. I want you to see it.”
The pause lasted seven seconds. Vera counted.
“I’m on my way.”
Tamara Nikolaevna arrived twenty minutes later. She came in, saw the bags on the landing, saw her daughter-in-law’s face, and without saying a word went into the kitchen. She sat down on a stool, folded her hands in her lap, and remained silent.
Vera sat in the living room. She turned off the light. And she waited.
Morning came gray and slow. At seven o’clock, there was movement in the bedroom. The door creaked. Yegor stepped into the hallway wearing only his underwear, yawning, and headed to the bathroom. On his way back, he glanced into the living room — and froze.
Vera was sitting in the armchair. Dressed. Hair done. Back straight.
“Good morning, Yegor.”
He turned so pale even his lips went white. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He threw a glance toward the bedroom, then back at Vera.
“You… you were supposed to have flown away.”
“No. Marina flew with Andrey. I stayed. To see with my own eyes what I already knew.”
“Vera, wait. It’s not what you think.”
“Yegor, I’m not thinking. I know. I’ve known for three weeks. The old push-button phone in the sneaker box. All your messages. Every single word.”
He took a step back. His eyes darted around — the bedroom door, the kitchen door, the hallway. A trapped animal in his own apartment.
“Where are my things?”
“On the landing. Your mistress’s things are there too.”
Yegor did exactly what Vera had expected — instead of apologizing, he attacked. It was as predictable as sunrise. A person caught red-handed always bites.
“You went through my phone? You searched my things?! This is your fault! You drove me to this! With your control, your constant suspicion!”
“Lower your voice, Yegor.”
“I will not lower my voice! This is my home!”
“This is my home. Bought before the marriage. With my money. With my father’s money. The documents are in the safe, you can check them. You were a guest here. A guest.”
He fell silent. That information struck him harder than any shout could have. For four years, he had lived there believing the apartment was theirs. For four years, Vera had never once reminded him whose it was. Until now.
Diana appeared in the bedroom doorway. Disheveled, wearing Yegor’s T-shirt, her eyes wide with fear. She saw Vera and froze.
“Vera…”
“Hi, Diana. Did you sleep well?”
“Vera, I can explain…”
“No. You can’t. Your things are on the landing. Get dressed and leave. I’m not going to talk to you now or later. You’re finished for me.”
Diana began to tremble. Her chin quivered, tears filled her eyes. She turned to Yegor, searching for support. Yegor stared at the floor.
“Yegor, say something!”
“What can he say?” Vera rose from the armchair. “He’s a coward. He has always been a coward. He couldn’t tell me to my face that he had another woman. Instead, he tried to send me to Turkey so he could bring you into my bed. Into my home.”
“Enough!” Yegor stepped toward her, raising his hand. “Stop humiliating me!”
Vera did not move back. She caught his hand halfway and slapped him hard across the face — short, sharp, dry. The sound cut through the apartment. Yegor staggered back, grabbed his cheek, and stared at his wife as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“Don’t you ever raise your hand to me. Ever. Do you understand?”
He stood there with his mouth open. In four years, Vera had never once raised her voice at him. Never touched him with a finger. And now — this slap, this gaze, this voice — he understood that a completely different person was standing before him. Or perhaps the same one he had never truly known.
At that moment, Tamara Nikolaevna came out of the kitchen. Yegor saw his mother and slowly slid down the wall into a crouch.
“Mom?..”
“Yes, Yegor. Mom. The same mom who spent the entire night sitting in your kitchen, listening to you snore with another woman in your wife’s bed.”
“Mom, you don’t understand…”
“I understand everything. I raised a fool. A greedy, cowardly fool who doesn’t value what he has. Vera was the best thing that ever happened to you. And you trampled all over it.”
Diana used the moment to slip back into the bedroom and dress in a panic. A minute later, she was already in the hallway.
Then the doorbell rang.
Vera opened the door. Kirill stood on the threshold — Diana’s husband. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face like stone. He looked over Vera’s shoulder and saw his wife standing there with her shoes in her hands.
“Kirill?!” Diana dropped the shoes.
“Yes, darling. It’s me. Hello. Vera called me. Two hours ago.”
He entered the apartment calmly, heavily, like a man who had already made his decision. He saw Yegor standing in the corner of the hallway in his underwear, one cheek red. He walked right up to him.
“So you’re the family friend.”
“Kirill, listen…”
Kirill did not listen. He hit Yegor in the jaw — quick, without winding up. Yegor crashed to the floor, striking the back of his head against the baseboard. He tried to get up, but his legs gave way. Kirill stood over him, looking down.
“Don’t get up. This position suits you.”
“Kirill, please, I’m begging you — not here,” Diana rushed to her husband and clung to his arm. “Let’s go home, I’ll explain everything…”
“You won’t explain anything. We’re leaving. But not home. You’re going to your mother’s. I’m going to my place. It’s over.”
Diana burst into sobs. Kirill took her by the elbow and led her to the door. Yegor lay on the floor, pressing his palm to his face. Blood trickled from his lip. Tamara Nikolaevna stood in the kitchen doorway, crying quietly, without a sound.
“Mom…” Yegor rasped.
“Don’t call me. Pick up your bags and leave. Don’t come to me either. Not until you become a decent man.”
The apartment fell silent.
Yegor left in wrinkled trousers, with a split lip, dragging black garbage bags behind him. Tamara Nikolaevna left too, calling a taxi. Vera remained alone. She stripped the bed, shoved the sheets into the washing machine, set it to ninety degrees, and sat down in the kitchen.
She did not cry. Her tears had ended three weeks earlier in the storage room, with that old phone in her hands. Now there was something else — a strange, unfamiliar lightness. As if a cast had been removed from her body after she had worn it for years and mistaken it for part of herself.
Her phone rang. Marina.
“Vera, we’ve landed. How are you?”
“I’m free, Marina. It’s over.”
“Did he confess?”
“He didn’t need to. I handled everything myself. I’ll tell you when you come back. Enjoy your vacation.”
“I love you, little sister.”
“I love you too.”
Vera ended the call. A phone vibrated on the table. Not hers. She picked it up — the screen was unlocked. It was Kirill’s phone. He had forgotten it on the kitchen table after coming in for water while washing his bruised hand.
A notification glowed on the screen. A message thread. Vera knew she should not read it. But the phone was open, and life had stopped playing by the rules a long time ago.
She read it.
Kirill had been messaging three women. Photos, plans for meetings, hotel reservations outside the city. The oldest conversation went back a year and a half. The man who had smashed Yegor’s face ten minutes earlier for cheating had been cheating on his own wife for just as long as she had been cheating on him.
Vera gave a tired smile. Not cruelly. Not with pleasure. Just exhaustion. She photographed the screen, sent the pictures to Diana, and placed the phone back on the table.
A minute later, Diana called. Her voice was soaked with tears.
“Vera? What is this?”
“Kirill’s phone. He forgot it here. Everything was open. See for yourself.”
“He… he too?”
“Yes, Diana. He too. You wanted explanations and excuses — there’s your explanation. You and Kirill deserve each other.”
“Vera, I… I’m so ashamed…”
“You should have been ashamed earlier. When you kissed me on the cheek on New Year’s Eve and then went to my husband. We are not friends anymore. We are nothing to each other. Goodbye.”
Half an hour later, Kirill called Vera.
“Hello, this is Kirill. I think I left my…”
“Phone. Yes. It’s on the table. You can come get it. But I should warn you — Diana has already seen your messages. All of them.”
The silence on the line lasted a long time. Then came a few short beeps.
Vera washed her cup, wiped the table, and opened the balcony door. Morning air rushed into the apartment — fresh, sharp, carrying the taste of a beginning. She dialed her father.
“Dad, it’s me.”
“Verochka, did something happen?”
“It did. But it’s over now. I separated from Yegor.”
“About time. Come over for lunch.”
“I will.”
She smiled for the first time in three weeks. Not widely, not joyfully — but truly. The kind of smile people have after climbing out from under the wreckage and seeing the sky.
On the stairwell, two floors below, Kirill was sitting on the cold steps. He had come for his phone, but he could not bring himself to go in. He dialed Diana’s number — the ringing went nowhere. He tried again. Same result. The man who had stood over Yegor like a victor an hour ago was now sitting there himself, lost and crushed by his own reflection in someone else’s screen.
And Vera closed the balcony door, took her keys, and walked out of the apartment.
Without looking back.
Without regret.
Ahead of her were lunch with her father, a call from her sister in Turkey, and a long, honest, free life.
She was thirty-two years old.
And everything was only beginning.