Marina’s phone chirped, vibrating against the tabletop. A message from Sergei: “Want to go to the dacha together this weekend?” Marina stared at the screen in such confusion, as if he’d suggested flying to Mars.
In twenty-five years of marriage, she had almost forgotten what their dacha looked like from the inside. Sergei had always gone there alone.
“Are you sick?” Marina asked when her husband came home from work.
Sergei smirked, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.
“Why would I be sick? I want to spend time with my wife. What’s so strange about that?”
“What’s strange is that in the last five years you’ve invited me to the dacha… let me think… zero times.”
“Oh, come on, Marina. Enough. Start packing. They’re promising good weather.”
Marina shrugged. Something felt off—but maybe he really had decided to fix their relationship? Lately they’d been living like neighbors: polite, calm, and almost emotionless.
On Saturday morning, as they were leaving the city, Marina suddenly realized she was scared. Scared of finding something at the dacha she didn’t want to see.
“Seriozha… what do you even do there? At the dacha?”
Her husband tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Regular dacha stuff. Garden beds, touching up the fence. Fixed the bathhouse last year.”
“We have a bathhouse?”
He frowned.
“We’ve had one for three years now.”
My God, I didn’t even know we had a bathhouse, Marina thought, turning to the window.
The dacha greeted them with the smell of dampness and uncut grass. While Sergei fiddled with the lock, Marina looked around. The plot seemed well kept, but somehow чужой—like it belonged to someone else. She clearly remembered there hadn’t been any rose bushes by the gate before.
“I’ll go light the stove,” Sergei said, disappearing into the house.
Marina followed. Inside was tidy and clean. On the table stood a vase with artificial flowers. Since when did Sergei become so… homey?
That evening, after dinner, Sergei’s phone rang. He stepped out onto the veranda, closing the door firmly behind him. Marina caught only scraps of the conversation.
“No, not now… Yes, everything’s ready… Don’t panic, I’ll handle it… Next weekend for sure…”
When Sergei came back, his face was tense.
“Who was that?” Marina asked, as casually as she could.
“Just work,” he waved it off. “Listen, I forgot some tools in the shed. I’ll go grab them.”
Through the window Marina watched her husband fuss around in the shed for a long time. He came back without any tools, but with a strange expression on his face.
In the morning, while Sergei went to fetch water, Marina finally worked up the nerve to look in the shed. The first thing she saw was a large women’s suitcase standing in the corner. Pink, with airport stickers. Her heart pounded so hard it was painful to breathe.
“What are you doing in here?”
Marina jumped. Sergei was standing in the doorway.
“What is that?” she pointed at the suitcase.
“It’s… things. For the dacha.”
“In a women’s suitcase? So you’re carrying pink luggage now?”
Sergei frowned.
“Marina, let’s talk later.”
“Talk about what? About you lying to me?” Her voice trembled. “Who is she?”
“You misunderstood everything.”
That phrase—so worn out, so movie-like—hit harder than anything. Marina shoved him in the shoulder and ran out of the shed.
By lunchtime the neighbor Galina came over—a heavyset woman with a loud voice. She brought a pie, sat at the table, and started chatting about her own life.
“Oh, Seryozha, is it true you sorted out that… well, the inheritance?”
Sergei went pale.
“Galya, not now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marina cut in. “What inheritance?”
“There is no inheritance,” Sergei stood up from the table. “Galya, thanks for the pie, but we need to go.”
They drove back to the city in complete silence. Marina stared out the window, thinking her whole life was one big lie. The pink suitcase. The inheritance. The secret calls. Sergei had someone. Or worse—he always had.
At home Marina went straight to the bathroom. She turned the water on full blast—she didn’t want Sergei to hear her crying. From the mirror, a tired woman with red eyes looked back at her. Fifty-eight. And what now? Start all over? She splashed cold water on her face and went out.
Sergei was sitting in the kitchen, turning a mug of cold tea in his hands.
“Marina, we need to talk.”
“About what? About your woman with the pink suitcase?”
“There is no woman!” He slammed his fist on the table.
“Oh yeah? Then what? What are you hiding? All these trips to the dacha, the secret calls, some kind of inheritance…” Marina’s voice broke.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Of course it is!” she laughed nervously. “For twenty-five years it’s been hard to explain!”
Sergei stood and came closer.
“Marina, I love you. Truly. It’s just that there are things—”
“What things?” She recoiled. “Another family? Kids?”
He turned pale, and Marina understood—she’d hit the target.
“You have a child?”
“Marina…”
“Answer me! Do you or don’t you?”
He turned to the window.
“It was before you. I didn’t know she was pregnant. I found out only years later.”
The room spun. Marina grabbed the back of a chair.
“How old?”
“What?”
“How long have you known about the child?”
Sergei let out a heavy sigh.
“Fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years!” She snatched the mug from the table and hurled it at the wall. “Fifteen years you lied to me!”
“I didn’t lie! I just—”
“You didn’t tell the truth! It’s the same thing!”
That night they slept in separate rooms. Marina tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Thoughts spun in her head, each worse than the last. She’d wanted children her whole life, but it never happened. And he, it turned out, had one. Somewhere. A boy? A girl? How old? Why did Sergei hide it?
In the morning she came into the kitchen, bleary-eyed from no sleep. Sergei was already there; he looked no better.
“Marina, we need to talk seriously.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There is. I’ll tell you everything. Just listen.”
For the first time in a long while, he took her hand. His palm was warm, familiar.
“Her name is Alisa. She’s twenty-seven. Her mother, Vera, was my… well, we dated before you. Then we split up; I didn’t know she was pregnant. She moved to another city, got married. And then, fifteen years ago, she wrote to me. Told me I had a daughter.”
“And you decided to hide it from me?” Marina yanked her hand away.
“I was afraid of losing you! I knew how you dreamed of children, how much you suffered that it didn’t work out… I thought you’d never forgive me if my child existed with someone else.”
“So you just decided for me?” Heat rose inside her. “That’s not fair, Seryozha!”
“I know. I know now. But back then… I kept in touch with my daughter in secret. Vera died two months ago… Alisa was left all alone. That’s why the suitcase… she used to come to the dacha. We’re preparing for her move.”
Marina sprang up, knocking over the chair.
“So you were going to bring her here? Just spring it on me?” She grabbed her bag. “You know what, Seryozha? Live however you want. With your daughter. I’ve got nothing to do there.”
She slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. It was raining outside, but she didn’t care.
Marina went to her friend Tanya’s. For two days she didn’t answer Sergei’s calls. On the third day, the phone rang again—his name on the screen. She wanted to reject it, but something stopped her.
“Hello.”
“Marina, don’t hang up. Please.”
His voice sounded broken, exhausted.
“What do you want?”
“To talk. I’ll come over. Can I?”
She was silent for a few seconds.
“Come to Tanya’s. I’m here.”
Sergei arrived an hour later. He sat opposite her on the edge of the sofa, looking down at the floor.
“Marina, I ruined everything. I know. I shouldn’t have hidden it. But I really was afraid of losing you.”
“And now you’re not?”
“I am. But I can’t lie anymore. Alisa is my daughter. She has no one left. I can’t abandon her.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon her,” Marina crossed her arms. “What makes me furious isn’t that you have a daughter. It’s that you didn’t trust me for all those years. Fifteen years, Seryozha!”
“I know,” he rubbed his face with his hands. “Every time I wanted to tell you, the moment wasn’t right. Then it became too late. I’d been silent for so long…”
“And what would you have done if Vera hadn’t died? Kept living a double life?”
Sergei looked up; tears glimmered in his eyes.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
They sat in silence. A car passed outside, headlights washing the room.
“Does she know about me?” Marina asked suddenly.
“Alisa? Yes. I told her about you.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That you’re kind. Smart. That you have the most beautiful hands.”
Without meaning to, Marina hid her hands under the table.
“She wants to see you,” Sergei went on. “Meet you.”
“I’m not ready.”
“I understand. But please think about it.”
He left, and Marina stayed on the sofa for a long time. Twenty-seven. Almost a grown woman. And I didn’t even know she existed.
At work Marina couldn’t focus. She mixed up documents, answered questions at random. Colleagues exchanged worried looks.
“Marish, are you okay?” Lena asked, peeking into her office.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like your world collapsed.”
It has, Marina thought, but out loud she said:
“I’m just tired.”
That evening, when she returned to Tanya’s, Tanya held out her phone.
“A photo came in. From Sergei.”
In the photo was a girl with light brown hair. She smiled in exactly the same way Sergei had smiled when he was young. The same crinkles by the eyes, the same tilt of the head.
“This is Alisa,” the caption read.
Marina stared at the photo for a long time. Then she dialed her husband.
“I agree to meet her. But not at home. Somewhere neutral.”
They arranged to meet at a café. Marina came early and ordered tea. Her fingers tapped nervously on the table. When the door opened and Sergei walked in with the girl, Marina’s heart skipped.
Up close Alisa looked even more like her father. The same eyes, the same jawline—only her gaze was wary, frightened.
“Hello,” Alisa held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Marina shook it. Thin fingers, cold.
“Me too,” she lied. Or maybe it wasn’t entirely a lie.
They sat down. Sergei ordered coffee for himself and his daughter. Alisa fidgeted with a napkin.
“Dad told me a lot about you,” she finally said.
“Really?” Marina glanced at her husband.
“Yes. He said you’re very kind. And strong.”
“Strong?” Marina gave a short laugh. “I’m not sure about that.”
“No, really,” Alisa suddenly brightened. “He said you never give up. Even when it’s very hard.”
A lump rose in Marina’s throat. Had Sergei really said that about her?
“I understand this is hard for you,” Alisa continued. “Because of me, all of this…”
“Not because of you,” Marina interrupted. “Because of the situation. None of this is your fault.”
They talked for almost two hours. Marina learned that Alisa worked as a designer. She loved photographing old houses and collecting vintage postcards. After her mother’s death she had been left completely alone.
When they parted, it wasn’t as tense. Marina even shook Alisa’s hand goodbye. A flicker of hope crossed the girl’s eyes.
“I should go,” Marina told Sergei. “I need to think.”
For two weeks Marina lived at Tanya’s. For two weeks she barely slept, turning in bed at night, thinking. Twenty-five years of marriage. Twenty-five years beside a man who’d been hiding something all that time—living another life.
But could you really just throw away a quarter of a century?
“How are you?” Tanya asked one evening.
“I don’t know,” Marina admitted. “I’m angry. I’m hurt. I miss him.”
“Miss him?”
“Him too.”
Tanya poured her tea.
“You know, Marina, I’m thinking… You’re angry that he hid his daughter all these years. But how much have you hidden from him?”
“Me? Nothing!”
“Really? Like blaming yourself for not having children? Feeling incomplete? Crying at night in secret?”
Marina fell silent. Tanya was right. She hadn’t always been open either.
The next day Marina went home. Sergei opened the door, not believing his eyes.
“Marina… are you back for good?”
“I don’t know,” she walked into the living room and sat on the couch. “I haven’t forgiven you, if that’s what you mean.”
“I understand.”
“But I decided to try… to sort through all of this. To see if we can keep living.”
He sat beside her, not daring to take her hand.
“Thank you.”
That evening they talked for a long time—honestly, for the first time in years. About their fears, dreams, disappointments. About what they’d lived through together and apart.
“I want to meet Alisa again,” Marina said at the end. “But first we need to decide what happens next. You and me. Us.”
A month later Marina invited Alisa over for lunch. She cooked all day—borscht, пирожки, salads. Sergei watched with surprise and hope.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asked.
“No,” she answered honestly. “But I want to learn to want it. Do you understand?”
Lunch went better than she expected. Alisa brought an album of her work—she designed books. Marina flipped through the pages with real interest, noticing details, asking questions. The girl came alive, talking about her projects.
Later, after Alisa left, Sergei hugged Marina.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For a chance. For all of us.”
By autumn they found a new balance. Alisa came over every Sunday. Marina taught her how to bake pies; Sergei showed old family photos. Little by little, the tension eased and made room for something new.
One day Sergei came home from work later than usual, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
“What are we celebrating?” Marina asked, surprised.
“Look,” he handed her an envelope.
Inside were the keys to the dacha and a note: “Thank you for everything. I found an apartment in the city. I’ll come on weekends. —Alisa.”
“She moved out of the dacha?” Marina looked up at her husband.
“Yes. She said the dacha should be just ours now—a place where we can be alone together.”
Marina turned the keys in her hand. She remembered how it all began: that trip to the dacha, the pink suitcase, the secrets and the hurt.
“Shall we go there this weekend?” she asked. “Just you and me?”
“Gladly,” Sergei smiled.
That weekend they went for шашлыки. Finally, they were together. In the evening they watched the stars, and before sleep Marina said:
“You know… I think we’ll manage.”
“Manage what?”
“All of it. This new life. Your daughter. Our relationship.”
Sergei hugged her tighter.
“I love you, Marina. I always have.”
“And I love you,” she kissed him.
The next day, as they were getting ready to leave, the phone rang. Alisa.
“Dad, Marina Viktorovna—I’ve got news! I got hired at a big publishing house!”
“Congratulations!” Marina said, genuinely happy. “Come over for dinner tonight. We’ll celebrate.”
That evening the three of them sat around the table. And Marina suddenly realized she felt good. She was happy.
“To new beginnings,” she raised her glass. “And to honesty.”
“To family,” Alisa added, smiling uncertainly.
“To us,” Sergei nodded.
Their glasses clinked with a bright, melodic sound. There was still a lot of work ahead—on their relationship, on trust, on themselves. But right now, in this moment, Marina knew for sure: everything would be okay. Not because the problems vanished, but because now they were facing them together—honestly, openly, like a family.