Irina stood by the window, staring blankly at the falling St. Petersburg snow. The phone conversation with her husband was coming to an end—a typical, unremarkable call, like the many they had over fifteen years of marriage. Yura was reporting on his “business trip” in Moscow: all was well, meetings were successful, he would return in three days.
“Alright, dear, then till next time,” Irina said, moving the phone away from her ear, about to press the red button, but something stopped her. A woman’s voice, melodic and young, clearly said from the other end:
“Yurochka, are you coming? I’ve already filled the bath…”
Irina’s hand froze. Her heart skipped a beat, then pounded furiously. She pressed the phone back to her ear, but only heard short beeps—her husband had hung up.
Irina slowly sank into a chair, feeling her legs weaken. Fragments of thoughts spun in her head: “Yurochka… A bath… What bath on a business trip?” Her memory helpfully supplied oddities from recent months: frequent trips, late calls that Yura took on the balcony, new perfume that appeared in his car. Her hands trembled as she opened her laptop. Accessing his email was easy—the password was long familiar, from times when there was trust and honesty between them. Tickets, hotel reservations… “Honeymoon suite” in a five-star hotel in downtown Moscow. For two.
The emails revealed correspondence. Kristina. Twenty-six years old, a fitness trainer. “My love, I can’t do this anymore. You promised you’d get a divorce three months ago. How much longer must I wait?”
Irina felt nauseous. Before her eyes floated their first date—back then, he was a simple manager, she was a budding accountant. They saved for their wedding for over a year, living in a rented apartment. They rejoiced together at their first successes, supported each other in failures. And now, he was a successful commercial director, she was the chief accountant at the same company, and between them was a chasm fifteen years deep and twenty-six years wide due to some Kristina.
In the hotel room, Yura nervously paced from corner to corner.
“Why did you do this?” His voice trembled with rage.
Kristina lay on the bed, carelessly draped in a silk robe. Her long blonde hair was scattered across the pillow. “What’s the big deal? You said you were going to divorce her.”
“I’ll decide when and how to do that! Do you realize what you’ve done? Irina isn’t stupid, she’s figured it all out!”
“Good!” Kristina sat up sharply on the bed. “I’m tired of being a mistress hidden in hotels. I want to go out to restaurants with you, meet your friends, be your wife, finally!”
“You’re acting like a child,” Yura gritted his teeth.
“And you’re a coward!” she jumped up, approached him. “Look at me! I’m young, beautiful, I can bear you children. What can she do? Count your money?”
Yura grabbed her by the shoulders: “Don’t dare speak about Irina like that! You know nothing about her, about us!”
“I know enough,” Kristina broke free. “I know you’re unhappy with her. That she’s bogged down in work and daily life. When was the last time you made love? When did you last go on vacation together?”
Yura turned away to the window. Somewhere there, in snow-covered St. Petersburg, in their apartment with Irina, everything was falling apart. Fifteen years of life crumbling like a house of cards from one reckless girl’s phrase.
Irina sat in the dark kitchen, clutching a cold cup of tea. Her phone showed dozens of missed calls from her husband. She hadn’t picked up. What could she say? “Dear, I heard your mistress inviting you to the bath”?
Memory helpfully supplied images of their life together. There was Yura giving her a ring, kneeling right in the middle of a restaurant. There they were moving into their first apartment—a small two-room in a residential area. There he was supporting her when her mother passed away. There they were celebrating his promotion… Then began those endless work emergencies, loans, renovations… When was the last time they simply talked heart-to-heart? When did they last watch movies cuddled up on the couch? When did they last make plans for the future?
The phone vibrated again. This time a message came through: “Ira, let’s talk. I’ll explain everything.”
What’s there to explain? That she’s gotten old? That she’s bogged down in daily life? That a young fitness trainer understands his needs better?
Irina walked to the mirror. Forty-two years old. Wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, gray hair she carefully covered every month. When did this tiredness in her eyes start, this habit of living by a schedule, this endless pursuit of stability?
“Yura, where have you been?” Kristina greeted him with an unhappy look when he returned to the room after another attempt to call his wife.
“Not now,” he collapsed into a chair, loosening his tie.
“No, now! I want to know what happens next. You realize we have to decide everything now?”
Yura looked at her—beautiful, confident, full of energy. Irina was like that fifteen years ago. My God, how could he do this to her?
“Kristina,” he tiredly rubbed his face with his hands, “you’re right. We need to decide everything.”
She beamed, rushed to him: “My love! I knew you’d make the right decision!” “Yes,” he gently pushed her away. “We need to end this.”
“What?!” she recoiled as if struck.
“It’s a mistake,” he stood up. “I love my wife. Yes, we have problems. Yes, we’ve drifted apart. But I can’t… I don’t want to erase everything that’s between us.”
“You… you’re just a coward!” tears rolled down her face.
“No, Kristina. I was a coward when I started this affair. When I lied to the woman who has shared everything with me for fifteen years: joys, sorrows, victories, defeats. You’re right—I’m unhappy. But happiness needs to be built, not sought elsewhere.”
A doorbell rang around midnight. Irina knew it was him—he’d flown back on the first flight.
“Ira, please open,” his voice sounded muffled through the door.
She opened. Yura stood on the threshold—unshaven, in a crumpled suit, with guilty eyes.
“May I come in?”
She stepped aside silently. They walked to the kitchen—where they once dreamed of the future, where they made important decisions.
“Ira…”
“No need,” she raised her hand. “I know everything. Kristina, twenty-six years old, fitness trainer. I read your emails.”
He nodded, unable to find the words.
“Why, Yura?”
He was silent for a long time, looking out at the night city.
“Because I’m a coward. Because I was scared that we became strangers. Because she reminded me of you—the old you, full of energy and plans.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he turned to her. “Now I want to fix everything. If you’ll allow me.”
“And her?”
“It’s over. I realized I can’t lose you. I don’t want to lose. Ira, I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But let’s try to start over? We’ll go to a psychologist, spend more time together, become who we were before…”
Irina looked at her husband—aged, grayed, painfully familiar. Fifteen years isn’t just a number. It’s shared memories, habits, jokes only they understand. It’s the ability to be silent together. It’s the capacity to forgive.
“I don’t know, Yura,” she cried for the first time that evening. “I just don’t know…”
He cautiously hugged her, and she didn’t pull away. Outside, the snow covered St. Petersburg with a white blanket.
And somewhere in Moscow, in a hotel room, a girl cried, facing the harsh truth for the first time: true love isn’t passion or romance. It’s a choice that must be made every day.
And here, in the kitchen, two not-so-young people were trying to pick up the pieces of their life. Ahead of them lay a long road—through resentments and distrust, through psychologist sessions and painful conversations, through attempts to re-know each other. But they both knew: sometimes you have to lose something to realize its value.