Larisa Pavlovna stood before the mirror in the entryway, adjusting the collar of her snow-white blouse. Behind her came her husband’s familiar voice:
— You’ve put on those shows of yours 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 how to make macarons. Larisa watched his every movement, mentally noting the proportions.
— They’re not shows, Volodya. They’re master classes, — she answered quietly, still watching.
— What’s the difference! — Vladimir walked into the kitchen, where freshly baked éclairs were cooling on the table. — You’ve stuffed yourself with this nonsense again. Look at yourself, Lara. Twenty years ago you were different.
Larisa knew what he meant. After the children were born she’d put on some weight, but not critically. She simply wasn’t the fragile girl he’d fallen in love with at university. Now she was forty-two, the mother of two children who were in college and 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.
He’d said it before. But in recent months his dissatisfaction had grown sharper, more hurtful. Larisa felt something had changed, but she didn’t understand what.
The answer came a week later.
— I’ve met someone else, — Vladimir said, sitting across from his wife at the kitchen table. Between them was a plate with sharlotka he hadn’t touched.
Larisa slowly set down her fork. Something clenched in her stomach, but her voice sounded remarkably calm:
— I see.
— She’s young, takes care of herself. Works at our company, in marketing. — Vladimir spoke without looking at his wife. — Lara, we need to have a serious talk.
— Go on.
— I want to leave for her.
Larisa nodded as if he’d told her tomorrow’s weather.
— And what about me?
— The apartment will stay yours. I’ll pay support for the kids until they finish university. — He finally looked at her. — Lara, try to understand, I can’t do this anymore. You… you’re not the woman I married. You’re fat, uninteresting. Always stuck in the kitchen with those dumb pies, watching soap operas…
— I don’t watch soap operas, — Larisa quietly cut him off.
— What’s the difference! You’ve turned into a dowdy housewife. Sveta has ambitions, plans. She wants to grow, to travel…
— And I don’t?
— Lara, be honest with yourself. When was the last time you read anything besides recipes? When was the last time we talked about anything other than what to make for dinner?
Larisa rose from the table and walked to the window. Children were playing in the yard; their laughter drifted through the glass.
— Fine, — she said without turning. — Leave.
Vladimir had expected tears, a scene, pleas to stay. Her calm unsettled him.
— Lara, I don’t want to hurt you…
— You already did. — She turned and, for the first time during the conversation, smiled. — You know what, Volodya? Maybe it’s for the best.
A month later, Vladimir moved out. When the children came home for break, they took the divorce philosophically. Twenty-year-old Andrei even told his mother:
— Mom, to be honest, I haven’t understood for a long time what kept you two together. Dad grumbled all the time, 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 be bored?
Larisa pondered the question. Bored? For the first time in many years she could do what she wanted without anyone’s disapproval. Watch her master classes, experiment with new recipes, read books on pastry arts.
The idea came unexpectedly. Larisa was watching another lesson from a French pastry chef and taking notes when she realized: she knew more about baking than many professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, thousands of master classes watched, hundreds of recipes tested. She had the knowledge, the skills, and, most importantly, the passion.
— A patisserie, — she said aloud, and the word sounded magical.
Finding the right space took two months. Larisa drove all over Moscow before she found what she wanted: a small hall on the ground floor of a residential building in a quiet neighborhood, with large windows and a separate entrance.
— The space is good, — said the landlord, a man in his fifties with graying hair and attentive gray eyes. — But no one’s considered it for a patisserie before. Are you sure?
— Absolutely, — Larisa replied, looking around and already arranging display cases and tables in her mind.
— I’m Igor, — he introduced himself. — Igor Mikhailovich. And you?
— Larisa Pavlovna.
— A pleasure. — He smiled, and Larisa noticed the kindness shining in his eyes. — You know, I have a proposal. If you’re really planning a patisserie here, I could help with the renovations. I’ve got connections with builders and electricians. We’ll do everything quickly and well.
— That’s very kind of you, but…
— No “buts,” — he interrupted. — Honestly, I’m interested in your idea. There isn’t a single decent patisserie in the area. Just chain cafés with frozen pastries. And here it would be something of your own, homemade.
Larisa looked at him closely. There was no false note or hidden motive in his words—just sincere interest.
— All right, — she said. — Let’s try.
The renovation really did go quickly. Igor Mikhailovich not only kept his promises, he also suggested many useful layout ideas. He stopped by often to check on the work, and gradually their business conversations turned more personal.
— Have you always wanted to do pastry? — he asked once, watching Larisa tell the electrician exactly where to install additional outlets for the equipment.
— No, — she answered honestly. — Before, it was just a hobby. I baked for family and friends. And now… — she paused, choosing her words. — Now I have the chance to do what I truly love.
— A divorce? — Igor asked delicately.
— Yes. My husband thought my passion for cooking was a waste of time. — Larisa gave a bitter smile. — He said I was a fat, uninteresting housewife who only baked pies and watched soap operas.
— Soap operas? — Igor was surprised. — I thought you watched culinary programs. Last time I came by you had a show about French desserts on your tablet.
Larisa looked at him in surprise. In twenty years of marriage, Vladimir had never once paid attention to what she was watching. And this man had noticed on the first try.
— Yes, they’re master classes, — she confirmed. — I’ve been studying them for many years.
— Then you’ve got a solid theoretical base, — Igor nodded approvingly. — And practical experience?
— Twenty years of daily practice, — Larisa smiled. — Though before, only my family and the neighbors got to enjoy my work.
— Lucky them, — Igor said sincerely, and something warm spread through Larisa’s chest.
Larisa’s Sweets opened three months after the divorce. Five customers came on the first day, ten on the second. But within a week a small line was forming at the door. Larisa baked cakes, pastries, and macarons using the very recipes she had studied for years on television and online. And each time she saw a customer’s satisfied face, she felt she had finally found her place in life.
Igor dropped in almost every day. At first under the pretext of checking the equipment, then simply to have coffee and sample the new items. Little by little, these visits became the best part of Larisa’s day.
— You know, — he said once, finishing a slice of honey cake, — I have a proposal.
— What kind? — Larisa wiped her hands on her apron, ready for a business discussion.
— Go to the theater with me.
Larisa froze. The last time she had been to the theater was about ten years ago with Vladimir, who spent the entire second half of the performance 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 mistaken?
Larisa studied him carefully. He was a few years older than she was, but looked younger than his fifty-five. Tall, fit, with intelligent eyes and a winning smile. And most importantly, he saw her not as a fat housewife but as an interesting woman.
— You’re not mistaken, — she said softly.
Their relationship developed unhurriedly: theater, exhibitions, restaurants—Igor showed Larisa a world she had nearly forgotten during her years of marriage and motherhood. And she opened for him the astonishing universe of pastry arts, spoke about the subtleties of different desserts, and shared plans to expand her assortment.
— You’re an extraordinary woman, — he told her one evening as they sat in her kitchen over coffee and slices of homemade pistachio cake. — So driven, talented, beautiful…
— Igor, — Larisa laughed, — don’t flatter me. I’ve seen myself in the mirror.
— And I see you every day, — he replied seriously. — I see a woman who has found herself and blossomed. You shine from within, Lara. That’s what makes you beautiful.
He proposed a year after the patisserie opened. Simply, without pomp, on a Sunday morning as they were having pancakes with homemade jam in her kitchen.
— Lara, let’s get married, — he said, spreading raspberry jam on a pancake.
She almost choked on her coffee.
— What?
— It just seems logical to me, — Igor smiled. — We love each other, we’re happy together. I have a big apartment, you have a wonderful business. We could make a family.
— And children? — Larisa asked. — Do you have children?
— I had a son. He died in a car crash three years ago, together with his wife. — Igor’s face darkened. — After that I thought I could never be happy again. And then I met you.
Larisa reached out and covered his hand with hers.
— Yes, — she said quietly. — Let’s get married.
They had a modest wedding with only the closest people. Andrei and Katya came from their universities, a few of Igor’s friends, and some neighbor-clients from the patisserie. Larisa was happier than she had been in a very long time.
Half a year after the wedding, Katya announced her engagement. Her chosen one, Sergey, was from a wealthy family, and they were planning a lavish celebration with many guests.
— Mom, are you going to invite Dad? — Katya asked as they discussed the guest list.
Larisa thought it over. Vladimir was the children’s father, and it would be strange not to invite him to his daughter’s wedding. But to see her ex-husband after everything that had happened…
— I’ll invite him, — she decided. — For your sake.
On the wedding day Larisa looked stunning. In two years of living on her own she had lost fifteen kilos—not through diets, but simply because she was happy and active. An elegant sea-green dress flattered her figure, and such joy shone in her eyes that people couldn’t help but smile when they looked at her.
Vladimir came alone. In those two years he had noticeably aged, though he was only three years older than Larisa. His affair with Sveta had ended six months after they moved in together—the girl found a more promising partner—and Vladimir was left in a rented one-room apartment, with a job that no longer brought satisfaction, and with the realization that he’d made a huge mistake.
He saw Larisa from afar and didn’t recognize her at first. The confident, radiant woman bore little resemblance to the browbeaten housewife he had divorced. Beside her stood a tall, gray-haired man looking at her with such tenderness that something clenched in Vladimir’s chest.
— Dad! — Katya ran up 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 among the guests; everyone praised the cake she had made specially for her daughter’s wedding. Her new husband didn’t leave her side, helped her on with her coat, brought champagne, introduced her to acquaintances as “my wonderful wife.”
By the end of the evening Vladimir couldn’t stand it. He approached Larisa when she was alone for a moment.
— Lara, — he called.
She turned. There was no anger or resentment on her face—only mild surprise.
— Hello, Volodya.
— You… you look very good, — he said awkwardly.
— Thank you.
— I heard you have your own patisserie now. How’s business?
— Pretty well. — Larisa smiled. — Turns out those “stupid pies,” as you called them, are liked by many.
Vladimir winced at the jab, but he had earned it.
— Lara, I wanted to say… I was wrong back then. About a lot of things.
— I know, — she replied calmly.
— And this… your husband… — he had trouble getting the word out. — He treats you well?
— Very well.
— So, in that “state,” someone actually wanted you? — the ex-husband couldn’t believe her happiness.
Larisa looked at him long and steadily.
— In that state? — she repeated.
— Well… — Vladimir faltered, realizing how foolish he sounded. — I mean…
— You mean a fat housewife who only knows how to bake pies and watch soap operas? — There was no anger in Larisa’s voice, only weariness.
— That’s not what I meant…
— Volodya, — Larisa said quietly, — I haven’t changed. I just finally met someone who knows how to see.
Igor walked up with two glasses of champagne.
— Darling, — he said, handing one to Larisa, — Sergey’s parents want to order a cake from you 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 very idiot who left my wife! — Igor exclaimed with genuine delight. — 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 there, mouth open. And Igor went on:
— Honestly, I still don’t understand how one could fail to see such a treasure. But your loss is my gain. — He slipped an arm around Larisa’s waist. — By the way, have you tried her cakes? No? You absolutely must before you leave. Lara has golden hands.
Vladimir nodded silently and stepped away. He didn’t approach his ex-wife again that evening.
Larisa watched him go and thought how differently a life can be lived. You can spend twenty years trying to prove your worth to someone, or you can meet a person for whom you are, from the start, the most precious thing in the world.
— 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.
And a few tables away, Vladimir sat alone and realized he had missed the most important thing in his life. But it was already too late. Larisa was no longer his wife; she was the wife of another man—a man who had managed to see in her what he himself had never learned to see in all their years of marriage.
When the celebration ended, Larisa and Igor rode home in a taxi. The lights of nighttime Moscow flickered outside the window, and her heart felt warm and calm.
— Do you regret marrying me? — Igor asked, taking her hand.
— Not for a second, — Larisa answered honestly. — And you?
— I thank fate every day that we met, — he said, kissing her hand.
Larisa rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. Ahead lay a long, happy life with a man who valued her just as she was. And behind were the years when she had tried to be convenient for someone who never learned to love her.
In the 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 believed it was true.