Larisa Pavlovna stood in front of the mirror in the hallway, adjusting the collar of her snow-white blouse. Behind her sounded her husband’s familiar voice:
“You’ve got those shows on again? Lara, how much longer? Twenty years of the same thing—kitchen, TV, kitchen, TV.”
She didn’t turn around. On the screen, a French pastry chef was demonstrating the technique of making macarons. Larisa carefully followed every movement of his hands, mentally noting the proportions.
“These aren’t shows, Volodya. They’re master classes,” she replied quietly, still watching.
“What’s the difference!” Vladimir walked into the kitchen, where freshly baked éclairs were cooling on the table. “And you stuffed yourself with that junk again. Look at yourself, Lara. Twenty years ago you were different.”
Larisa knew what he meant. After having children, she had gained weight, but not drastically. She simply wasn’t the fragile girl he’d fallen in love with back in college. Now she was a forty-two-year-old woman, mother of two, with children away at university who only came home for the holidays.
“The kids love my baking,” she said, without turning toward him.
“The kids are grown, Lara. And you’re still stuck in this kitchen.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said this. But in recent months his dissatisfaction had grown sharper, more hurtful. Larisa sensed something had changed, though she didn’t yet understand what.
The answer came a week later.
“I’ve met someone else,” Vladimir said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table. Between them stood a plate with apple charlotte, untouched by him.
Larisa slowly set her fork aside. Something clenched in her stomach, but her voice came out surprisingly calm:
“I see.”
“She’s young, takes care of herself. Works in our company, in the marketing department.” Vladimir spoke without looking at her. “Lara, we need to have a serious talk.”
“Go ahead.”
“I want to leave for her.”
Larisa nodded, as if he’d just told her the weather forecast.
“And what about me?”
“The apartment stays with you. I’ll pay child support until the kids finish university.” At last, he looked at her. “Lara, try to understand—I can’t do this anymore. You’re not the woman I married. You’re fat, boring. Always holed up in the kitchen with those stupid pies, watching soap operas…”
“I don’t watch soap operas,” Larisa quietly interrupted.
“What’s the difference! You’ve become a house hen. Sveta has ambition, plans for life. She wants to grow, to travel…”
“And I don’t?”
“Lara, be honest. When was the last time you read anything besides recipes? When did we last talk about something other than what’s for dinner?”
Larisa stood up from the table and went to the window. Outside, children were playing; their laughter drifted in through the glass.
“Fine,” she said without turning. “Go.”
Vladimir seemed to expect tears, a scene, some attempt to keep him. Her calm unsettled him.
“Lara, I don’t want to hurt you…”
“You already have.” She turned and smiled for the first time during their talk. “You know what, Volodya? Maybe it’s for the best.”
A month later, Vladimir moved out. When the children came home for the holidays, they took the divorce philosophically. Twenty-year-old Andrei even told his mother:
“Mom, to be honest, I never understood what kept you together. Dad always complained, and you… you just put up with it.”
Eighteen-year-old Katya was more emotional:
“Mom, are you going to live alone now? Won’t you get lonely?”
Larisa pondered the question. Lonely? For the first time in years, she could do what she wanted without worrying about anyone’s disapproval. Watch her master classes, experiment with recipes, read books about pastry arts.
The idea came suddenly. Larisa was watching another French pastry lesson, jotting notes in her notebook, when she realized: she knew more about baking than many professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, thousands of master classes, hundreds of recipes tested. She had the knowledge, the skill, and most importantly, the passion.
“A pastry shop,” she said aloud, and the word sounded magical.
Finding the right space took two months. She drove all over Moscow before finding what she wanted: a small ground-floor unit in a quiet neighborhood, with big windows and a separate entrance.
“Nice place,” said the landlord, a man in his fifties with graying hair and keen gray eyes. “But no one’s ever considered a pastry shop here. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Larisa answered, already mentally arranging display cases and tables.
“My name’s Igor,” he introduced himself. “Igor Mikhailovich. And you?”
“Larisa Pavlovna.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled, and Larisa noticed the warmth in his eyes. “You know, I have an idea. If you’re really planning a pastry shop here, I can help with the renovations. I know builders, electricians. We’ll get it done quickly and well.”
“That’s very kind of you, but…”
“No ‘buts,’” he interrupted. “Honestly, I like your idea. There’s not a single good pastry shop in the area. Just chain cafés with frozen desserts. Here you’ll have something unique, homemade.”
Larisa looked at him carefully. There was no falseness or hidden agenda in his words—just genuine interest.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s try.”
The renovation really did go quickly. Igor Mikhailovich kept his promises and suggested many useful layout ideas. He often came by to check on the work, and gradually their business talks turned more personal.
“Have you always wanted to bake?” he asked once, watching her explain to the electrician where to install extra outlets.
“No,” she admitted. “It used to just be a hobby. I baked for family and friends. And now…” She paused, searching for the words. “Now I have the chance to do what I truly love.”
“Divorce?” Igor asked gently.
“Yes. My ex thought my passion for baking was a waste of time.” Larisa smiled bitterly. “He said I was a fat, boring housewife who only baked pies and watched soap operas.”
“Soap operas?” Igor raised an eyebrow. “I thought you watched cooking shows. Last time I came by, you had a French dessert program playing on your tablet.”
Larisa looked at him in surprise. In twenty years of marriage Vladimir had never once noticed what she was actually watching. And this man had noticed the first time.
“Yes, they’re master classes,” she confirmed. “I’ve been studying them for years.”
“Then you’ve got a solid theoretical base,” Igor nodded approvingly. “And practical experience?”
“Twenty years of daily practice,” Larisa smiled. “Though until now, only family and neighbors enjoyed my work.”
“Lucky them,” Igor said sincerely, and something warm spread through Larisa’s chest.
Larisa’s pastry shop, “Lara’s Sweets,” opened three months after the divorce. On the first day, only five customers came; on the second, ten. But within a week there was already a small line outside. Larisa baked cakes, pastries, macarons from the very recipes she’d studied for years. Every time she saw the happy faces of her clients, she felt she’d finally found her place.
Igor came by almost every day. At first with the excuse of checking the equipment, then just for coffee and to try her new creations. Gradually, those visits became the highlight of Lara’s day.
“You know,” he said once, finishing a piece of honey cake, “I have a proposal.”
“What kind?” Larisa wiped her hands on her apron, expecting a business matter.
“Go to the theater with me.”
Larisa froze. She hadn’t been to the theater in ten years, and back then Vladimir spent the second half of the play on his phone.
“I…” she faltered. “Igor Mikhailovich, we…”
“We’re adults,” he gently interrupted. “And it seems we enjoy each other’s company. Or am I wrong?”
Larisa studied him closely. Igor was a few years older, but looked younger than his fifty-five. Tall, fit, intelligent eyes, a warm smile. Most importantly, he saw her not as a fat housewife, but as an interesting woman.
“You’re not wrong,” she said softly.
Their relationship developed slowly: theaters, exhibitions, restaurants. Igor showed Larisa a world she’d nearly forgotten during years of marriage and motherhood. And she revealed to him the fascinating world of pastry art, sharing the subtleties of desserts and plans to expand her menu.
“You’re an amazing woman,” he told her one evening as they sat in her apartment over coffee and pistachio cake. “So driven, talented, beautiful…”
“Igor,” Larisa laughed, “don’t lie. I’ve seen myself in the mirror.”
“And I see you every day,” he replied seriously. “And I see a woman who’s found herself and blossomed. You glow from within, Lara. That makes you beautiful.”
He proposed a year after the pastry shop opened. Simply, without fanfare, on a Sunday morning over pancakes with homemade jam.
“Lara, let’s get married,” he said, spreading raspberry jam on a crepe.
She almost choked on her coffee.
“What?”
“Seems logical,” Igor smiled. “We love each other, we’re good together. I’ve got a big apartment, you’ve got a great business. We could make a family.”
“Do you have children?” Larisa asked.
“I had a son. He and his wife died in a car accident three years ago.” Igor’s face darkened. “After that, I thought I’d never be happy again. Then I met you.”
Larisa reached out and covered his hand with hers.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Let’s get married.”
The wedding was modest, only close family. Andrei and Katya came from university, a few of Igor’s friends, some neighbor-clients. Larisa was happier than she’d been in years.
Six months later, Katya announced her engagement. Her fiancé, Sergey, came from a wealthy family; the wedding would be lavish, with many guests.
“Mom, will you invite Dad?” Katya asked while they discussed the guest list.
Larisa hesitated. Vladimir was her children’s father; it would be odd not to invite him. But meeting her ex after all that had happened…
“I will,” she decided. “For you.”
On the wedding day, Larisa looked stunning. Two years of independent life had melted fifteen kilos—not through dieting, but simply because she was happy and active. An elegant sea-green dress highlighted her figure; her eyes shone with such joy that guests couldn’t help but smile looking at her.
Vladimir came alone. In two years, he had aged noticeably, though he was only three years older than Larisa. His romance with Sveta ended six months after moving in together—she found a better prospect. Vladimir was left in a rented one-bedroom, with a job that no longer pleased him, and the bitter realization of a colossal mistake.
He saw Larisa from afar and barely recognized her. This confident, radiant woman bore little resemblance to the beaten-down housewife he’d divorced. Beside her stood a tall, silver-haired man gazing at her with such tenderness that something twisted inside Vladimir.
“Dad!” Katya ran to him and hugged him. “I’m so glad you came! Come on, I’ll introduce you to Sergey’s parents.”
Vladimir spent the whole evening watching his ex-wife. Larisa was the center of attention; everyone praised the cake she’d baked for the wedding. Her new husband never left her side—helping with her coat, bringing champagne, introducing her proudly as “my beautiful wife.”
By the end of the evening, Vladimir couldn’t stand it. He approached Larisa when she was briefly alone.
“Lara,” he called.
She turned. Her face showed no anger or resentment—just mild surprise.
“Hello, Volodya.”
“You… you look really good,” he said awkwardly.
“Thank you.”
“I heard you have your own pastry shop now. Business going well?”
“Yes, pretty well.” Larisa smiled. “Turns out those ‘stupid pies,’ as you called them, are quite popular.”
Vladimir winced; he deserved that jab.
“Lara, I wanted to say… I was wrong. About a lot of things.”
“I know,” she replied calmly.
“And this… husband of yours…” he forced the word out. “He treats you well?”
“Very well.”
“So… you turned out to be wanted by someone, looking like that?” the ex-husband blurted, unable to believe her happiness.
He didn’t even know why he said it—maybe out of spite toward himself, his stupidity, his lost happiness.
Larisa looked at him long and intently.
“Looking like that?” she repeated.
“Well…” Vladimir faltered, realizing how stupid it sounded. “I mean…”
“You mean a fat housewife who only bakes pies and watches soaps?” There was no anger in her voice, only weariness.
“I didn’t mean that…”
“Volodya,” Larisa said softly, “I haven’t changed. I just finally met someone who knows how to see.”
Igor came up with two glasses of champagne.
“Darling,” he said, handing Larisa a glass, “Sergey’s parents want to order a cake for their anniversary.” He turned to Vladimir. “Sorry, we haven’t met. Igor Mikhailovich.”
“Vladimir… Larisa’s ex-husband,” Vladimir introduced himself.
“Ah, so you’re the idiot who left my wife!” Igor said cheerfully. “Do you know how lucky I am that you did? Now I have the most beautiful, intelligent, and talented woman in the world. Thank you so much!”
Vladimir stood speechless. Igor continued:
“Honestly, I still don’t get how you missed such a treasure. But your loss is my gain.” He put an arm around Larisa’s waist. “By the way, have you tried her cakes? No? Be sure to before you leave. Lara’s got golden hands.”
Vladimir nodded silently and stepped away. He didn’t approach his ex again that evening.
Larisa watched him go, reflecting on how differently life can turn out. You can spend twenty years trying to prove your worth to someone—or you can meet a person who sees you as priceless from the start.
“What are you thinking about?” Igor asked, noticing her pensive look.
“About how lucky I am,” Larisa smiled and kissed her husband on the cheek.
A few tables away, Vladimir sat alone, realizing he had lost the most important thing in his life. But it was too late. Larisa was no longer his wife; she was another man’s wife. A man who had learned to see what Vladimir never could.
When the celebration ended, Larisa and Igor rode home in a taxi. City lights flashed past the windows; her soul felt warm and at peace.
“Don’t regret marrying me, do you?” Igor asked, holding her hand.
“Not for a second,” Larisa answered honestly. “And you?”
“I thank fate every day that we met,” he said and kissed her palm.
Larisa leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Ahead lay a long, happy life with someone who valued her exactly as she was. Behind were the years she’d spent trying to please someone who never learned to love her.
The next morning, she woke in her husband’s arms as he whispered in her ear how beautiful she was. And for the first time in many years, Larisa truly believed it.