The voice message arrived at twelve minutes past one, while Irina was standing in the hallway with a laundry basket in her hands, trying to remember where the missing half of a pair of socks had disappeared to. Her phone buzzed on the shelf. The name on the screen read: Stepan.
She pressed play without thinking much about it, the way you open something you assume doesn’t matter.
At first there was background noise, the clink of glasses, someone chuckling. Then came Nikolai’s voice—calm, familiar, domestic. The same voice he used when asking her to pass the salt.
“All right, guys. I’m filing. That’s it. We’ve stretched this thing as far as it’ll go. Any further and it’ll just snap.”
“Are you serious?” someone asked.
“Never been more serious. Time to put an end to it and move on. I’ve made up my mind.”
Irina listened to the recording all the way through.
Then she rewound it and listened again.
 
The laundry basket was still at her feet. Inside it lay one of Nikolai’s shirts, the same one she had carefully steamed the evening before.
She had known this man for fifteen years, and not once—not once—had she ever heard him use the word divorce.
They had argued, of course.
Sometimes they stopped speaking for two days, then somehow made up without apologies, simply starting a conversation about something unrelated. Their arguments were rare and small, the sort of arguments people had when, generally speaking, they were comfortable with each other.
Irina mentally went through everything she knew about his routine.
Work. Dinner at seven. Television at eight. Bed at ten.
It was more of a timetable than a husband.
So it probably wasn’t another woman.
There simply wasn’t enough room between dinner and television for another woman to fit into his schedule.
And even if somehow there was, that wasn’t what hurt Irina most.
What hurt was that four men holding glasses had found out about the end of her marriage before she had.
They had discussed her life, weighed it up, passed judgment on it, poured themselves another round—
and nobody had bothered to inform her.
She carried the basket away and set it down neatly.
 
Then she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Scalding hot first.
Then freezing cold.
Then hot again.
Then cold.
She repeated it until there was nothing unnecessary left in her head.
When she came out, her hair was wet. She threw on a robe, sat on the edge of the sofa, and picked up her phone.
Tamara Petrovna answered on the fourth ring, breathing heavily as though she were climbing a hill.
“Irinka? What happened?”
“Hello, Tamara Petrovna. I have a simple question. Did you know your son is filing for divorce?”
The silence on the other end lasted so long that Irina had time to squeeze water from a strand of hair with her towel.
“What are you talking about? Filing for what?”
“For what people normally file when they want a divorce. He’s divorcing me. Apparently everything has already been decided, discussed, and planned. With witnesses.”
“Ira, you… you must have misunderstood. He would never…”
“I thought so too. Give me a second. I’m going to send you something. I don’t want you thinking I invented this or worked myself up over nothing.”
She forwarded the recording.
 
Then she listened to the silence at the other end, followed by the same noise of glasses, and then Nikolai’s unmistakable voice:
“All right, guys. I’m filing.”
“My God,” Tamara Petrovna whispered. “That really is him.”
“It is. His voice, his words, his decision. Apparently I’m just a stranger in this whole story. Nobody even bothered to send me an invitation.”
“Irochka, wait. Don’t do anything rash. I’ll talk to him…”
“Talk as much as you like. I’m just not standing in line for a conversation anymore. I’ve joined another line.”
Irina ended the call and sat staring at her hands.
Then she scrolled through her contacts until she found Viktor Ilyich.
Tamara Petrovna had divorced him eight years earlier. For eight years he had only called Irina on holidays, but Nikolai still spoke to his father often.
“Viktor Ilyich, hello. It’s Irina.”
“Oh, my daughter-in-law! Still alive? What’s happening over there?”
“Alive and well. Tell me honestly—did you know Kolya was getting divorced?”
“Who’s getting divorced?”
“Your son. From me. Apparently everything has already been decided. I found out last, like tenants being told their building is about to be demolished.”
“Wait. I think you’ve got something mixed up.”
“I haven’t. Listen.”
He listened to the recording.
Irina heard him set something down.
“What an idiot,” Viktor Ilyich finally muttered. “Don’t think I’m taking his side. He’s always been like that. First he puffs himself up in front of the guys, then later scares himself with what he said.”
“So it runs in the family,” Irina replied politely. “Thank you for confirming it. I sent you the recording on purpose, by the way. Just so nobody later starts telling everyone I was the one who wanted the divorce.”
“Smart move. Just don’t tear everything apart while you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry, Viktor Ilyich. I’ve had a cold shower.”
 
Nikolai came home at seven minutes past eight.
He took off his shoes and placed them neatly with the toes facing the wall.
He hung his jacket on his usual hook.
Everything was exactly as always, down to the smallest movement.
Irina was sitting in an armchair. Her hair had almost dried, and her phone lay on the armrest.
“Is there dinner?” he asked.
“There’s news. It’s more filling. I agree to the divorce.”
He froze in the doorway.
His face changed the way a person’s face changes when they expect another stair beneath their foot and discover there isn’t one.
“What?”
“The divorce. You wanted one. I agree. A rare moment of complete unity in our family. We should celebrate.”
“Ira, what… what’s gotten into you? Have you checked your temperature?” He tried to smile, but the smile came out crooked, lifting only one corner of his mouth. “Maybe you should lie down.”
“I’ll have plenty of time for that later. First, let’s listen to the radio.”
She tapped the phone screen.
 
Noise.
Glasses clinking.
A laugh.
Then Nikolai’s voice.
“All right, guys. I’m filing. Time to put an end to it and move on. I’ve made up my mind.”
Nikolai sat heavily on the hallway ottoman, as though his legs had made the decision for him.
“Who,” he said quietly. “Who gave you that?”
Irina stared at him.
“Seriously? You’re less worried about the divorce than you are about who was in the audience?”
“There were four of us! Four! One of them is Judas!”
“You know, with that many apostles, one Judas is actually fairly modest,” Irina said. “Statistically, you’re doing well.”
“You don’t understand! That was a private conversation between men!”
“A conversation between a man and his wife would have been a private conversation between adults. What you had was a homeowners’ meeting without the owner present.”
He jumped up, walked into the living room, came back, then went into the living room again.
“I had a right to say how I felt! I needed to get things off my chest. I’m a living person!”
“Alive, yes. I agree. Dead people are usually quieter. You, on the other hand, gave a full political speech. And as I said, I don’t object. But the divorce will be handled fairly, not according to whatever rules you invented over drinks.”
“What rules?!” His voice shot upward. “What are you even talking about?”
 
“I’m talking about the fact that ‘I’m filing for divorce’ sounds very impressive when you’re drinking with your friends. It sounds quite different when paperwork is involved. So let’s count. Who owns this apartment?”
He opened his mouth, then stopped.
“Well… your mother.”
“Correct. It’s legally hers. You’ve always known that, which is why you were so careful drilling holes for shelves. Next—the country house?”
“Your grandfather’s,” he muttered.
“My grandfather’s, yes. Still alive and healthy, may he stay that way. So what’s left? The car. Along with the loan you’ve been proudly paying off for three years. Which means that in this divorce, you walk away with four wheels and a monthly obligation.”
“You… you sound like you were waiting for me with a calculator!”
“I was waiting with facts. The calculators were being used by the men cheering you on.”
Nikolai rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed.
 
“Ira, listen. It was just talk. The guys were teasing me, I got carried away, I said something stupid. It was a joke, okay? A stupid, unsuccessful joke.”
“A joke is when two people laugh. I didn’t laugh once, so technically it was a monologue.”
“Why are you picking apart every word?”
“I’m not picking them apart. I’m preserving them carefully. You don’t say things about divorce very often. They’re rare collectibles.”
“All right,” Nikolai said, straightening. “So what now? What do you suggest?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. You said you were filing. So file.”
Irina nodded toward the phone in his hand.
“Open the app. It’s simple. They even use pictures.”
“Now? Have you lost your—”
“No. I’m perfectly myself. You wanted to put a period at the end of our marriage. There it is, right in your hand. All you have to do is press.”
“I’m not pressing anything!”
“Then I will. The only difference will be that one of us said something and followed through, while the other said something and hid behind his drinking buddies.”
He stood silently, breathing through his nose.
“So which are you?” Irina asked calmly. “A man of your word, or just someone who talks?”
The insult hit more accurately than shouting ever could.
Nikolai sat down.
He stabbed angrily at the screen and began filling in the required fields, furious at her, furious at himself, and furious at whichever one of the four men had forwarded the recording.
He reached the final button.
Then stopped.
“You’re really going to confirm it?” he asked without looking up.
“You’re really going to press it?” she replied.
 
He pressed the button.
Several seconds later, Irina’s phone gave a short chime.
She opened the notification, read it, raised one eyebrow, and confirmed her consent without getting out of the chair.
“Done,” she said.
“Go ahead. Move on. That’s what you wanted.”
Nikolai turned so pale that every individual hair of his stubble seemed visible.
“Wait, wait. Why did you agree so quickly?” His voice trembled and rose. “Nobody agrees that quickly! You’ve got someone else!”
“I do,” Irina said lightly. “Artyom. And Ruslan. And Daniil too, I think.”
“What?!” He jumped to his feet. “Who the hell is Artyom?”
“The one I danced with at the school reunion in May. He’s terrible at dancing and steps on your feet constantly, but at least he warns you first.”
“And Ruslan?”
“The guy from the office party. The one who made three toasts and twice toasted the wrong people.”
“And Daniil?”
 
“You’ve met him. He helped me carry boxes when my sister moved. Shall I keep going? I’ve got a whole list. I can even do it alphabetically.”
“You think I’m an idiot!”
“Metaphorically speaking, I’m holding your hand,” Irina said. “Otherwise you’d already have launched yourself through the ceiling. Kolya, you’re not looking for proof that I cheated. You’re looking for a reason to make me the guilty one. That way it’ll be easier to tell the guys in episode two.”
He opened his hands, then clenched them into fists.
“You set me up.”
“Your own voice set you up. I was simply an audience member who got in without buying a ticket.”
“This is a circus,” he groaned.
“I agree. The show is over. We’re divorcing—or at least the official process is underway. Go pack your things.”
“Where am I supposed to go?!”
“To Tamara Petrovna. She already knows. I enlightened her this morning. I’m sure she’s made up the sofa for you. She’s good at that sort of thing.”
Nikolai’s phone rang while he stood in front of the open wardrobe holding the freshly steamed shirt.
“Kolya,” Tamara Petrovna began, “just don’t lose your temper, all right? You’ll never find another woman like Ira, and I’m telling you as your—”
“She divorced me!” he shouted into the phone. “Do you understand? She divorced me! Literally! I pressed the button and she confirmed it!”
“You pressed what? What button? Kolya, explain properly!”
Irina calmly took the phone from his hand.
“Tamara Petrovna, it’s me. Kolya submitted the divorce application himself. Voluntarily, without coercion, and in under two minutes. I agreed. He’s packing his belongings now. Please prepare the sofa for him.”
Silence.
“Irochka…” Tamara Petrovna’s voice became cautious. “You understand, I don’t live alone now. There’s Pyotr Sergeyevich. We’ve only recently… settled in together. I honestly don’t have anywhere to put Kolya.”
“So the sofa is occupied?”
 
“Occupied, Irochka. I really can’t.”
“I understand. Goodbye.”
Irina ended the call and handed the phone back to Nikolai.
“Bad luck. Mommy has a man now, and there’s no little sofa left for her boy.”
“That’s not funny.”
“No. It really isn’t. Call your father.”
“I’m not calling him!”
“Then I will. As you may have noticed, I’m very good at pressing buttons today.”
Viktor Ilyich answered almost immediately.
“Viktor Ilyich, one question. Will you take in your prodigal son? He’s practically standing here with his suitcase.”
“Well…” Viktor Ilyich hesitated. “Irochka, I’ve only got one little room, and I’m not exactly… alone either. Larisa is here. The two of us can barely move around as it is. Maybe you could keep him somehow…”
“Understood. Thank you for being straightforward. It’s rare in your family.”
She placed the phone on the armrest and looked at Nikolai with something almost resembling sympathy.
“Nobody wants to take you back. Not a single return center. Maybe we should get married again?”
Hope flashed across his eyes so quickly and so greedily that Irina couldn’t help herself.
She folded her fingers and made an insulting little gesture at him.
“Just kidding. A stupid, unsuccessful joke. You like that genre, don’t you?”
“Irina!”
“You can sleep on the sofa tonight. Tomorrow morning, I don’t want to see you here.”
He barely slept.
 
He walked around, sat down, got up again, made himself coffee, and drank everything left in the house down to the last spoonful.
It didn’t help.
By half past five in the morning, he was sitting upright in the dark, stiff as a nail, silently repeating four names and trying to guess which of his friends had betrayed him.
At seven, Irina shook his shoulder.
“Up. Time to go.”
“Ira, can we at least talk?”
“We already talked. You talked to the guys. I talked to the app. Ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, Nikolai stood on the landing outside the apartment.
Beside him was an old suitcase with a cracked corner and five plastic bags. The sleeve of the freshly steamed shirt stuck out of one of them.
The door closed quietly.
A month passed.
One day, Irina answered the door and found Nikolai standing there.
He had gotten a haircut.
 
He wore a new jacket.
And in both hands he held a bouquet as carefully as a child holding something precious he had just discovered.
“Ira,” he said.
Then he dropped onto one knee right there on the doormat.
“Marry me.”
Irina laughed for a long time.
Not cruelly.
She laughed the way people laugh when something is genuinely, spectacularly ridiculous.
She laughed until tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and she had to hold on to the doorframe.
“You know,” she finally said when she had caught her breath, “you were the one who put the period at the end of this story. I simply decided not to erase it.”
And she closed the door on her unsuccessful suitor.