The phone rang at ten in the evening.
An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Good evening. Are you Sergei Kravtsov’s wife?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“Your husband is in the hospital. Admissions. City Hospital No. 1. Come right away.”
My heart dropped.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Come. The doctor will explain.”
Dial tone.
I grabbed my bag. My keys. My jacket.
Called a taxi.
My mind was blank—only one thought.
Sergei. Hospital. What happened?
An hour ago he’d texted: “In a meeting. I’ll be late.”
A meeting…
The hospital hit me with the smell of bleach and silence.
Admissions. A corridor. People sitting on benches.
I went up to the window.
“Hello. I got a call. Kravtsov, Sergei—where is he?”
The nurse looked at the computer.
“The doctor is with him now. Have a seat.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“The doctor will tell you.”
I sat on the bench. My hands were shaking.
I waited.
Twenty minutes later a doctor came out.
Young—about thirty-five.
“Are you Kravtsov’s family?”
I jumped up.
“I am. His wife. What’s happening?”
“A heart attack. We stabilized him. He’s in intensive care now.”
My legs went weak. I grabbed the wall.
“A heart attack?..”
“Yes. Luckily they brought him in on time. The prognosis is guarded, but his chances are good.”
“Can I see him?”
“Later. Not now.”
The doctor turned to leave.
“Doctor…”
“Yes?”
“Who brought him in? He was at work…”
The doctor frowned.
“He was with his wife. A young woman. They were sitting in a café, he felt unwell. She called an ambulance. She came with him.”
Time stopped.
“With his wife?”
“Yes. That’s how she introduced herself. She left about forty minutes ago.”
“I’m his wife.”
The doctor froze.
“But…”
“I’m Marina Kravtsova. We’ve been married for fifteen years.”
A pause. The doctor lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He walked away.
I stayed standing in the corridor.
Fifteen years of marriage.
Fifteen years I thought we were happy.
Sergei worked at a construction company—chief engineer. He often stayed late.
Meetings. Sites. Inspections.
I worked as an accountant. I came home earlier.
Made dinner. Waited for him.
We didn’t have children. It just didn’t happen.
We accepted it. Lived the two of us.
Quietly. Steadily.
I thought it was forever.
A young wife.
A café. Evening.
A heart attack.
She was with him. Beside him.
And I found out last.
I got home at dawn.
They let me see him for five minutes.
Sergei lay pale, with tubes and sensors.
Eyes closed. Breathing heavily.
I stood by the bed and held his hand.
“Sergei… hold on. Please.”
He didn’t hear me. He was sedated.
The nurse said his condition was serious—the first 24 hours were critical.
I left. I needed to change clothes. Grab some things.
At home I sat on the bed.
Our bed. Where we’d slept for fifteen years.
I picked up his phone. It was on the nightstand.
I knew the passcode. Our wedding day.
I unlocked it.
A chat with “Lera.”
The last message—yesterday evening:
“Waiting for you at the café. Miss you.”
His reply:
“On my way. Love you.”
I scrolled up.
Hundreds of messages. Months of texting.
“When will you tell your wife?”
“Soon. I promise.”
“I’m tired of waiting.”
“Hang on. I’ll divorce her. We’ll be together.”
I set the phone down.
Stood up. Went to the window.
Outside, dawn—gray and cold.
Divorce. He promised her a divorce.
And to me he said, “In a meeting.”
I went back to the hospital during the day.
I brought a bag—clothes, food.
Just in case I had to stay.
Sergei was still in ICU. No visits.
I sat in the corridor. Waited.
Doctors came out, went back in. Silent.
“How is he?”
“Stable. Holding on.”
Holding on.
That evening I saw her.
A girl about twenty-eight. Slim. Beautiful.
She walked into the ward and went to the window.
“Hello. How is Sergei Kravtsov?”
The nurse glanced at me.
“And who are you?”
“I… I’m his fiancée.”
I stood up.
“I’m his wife.”
The girl turned around. Went pale.
“You… Marina?”
“Yes. And you’re Lera?”
She nodded.
We stood facing each other in silence.
“I need to see him,” she said quietly.
“You can’t. ICU.”
“But…”
“I said you can’t.”
Lera clenched her bag.
“I love him.”
“So do I. Fifteen years.”
A pause.
“He promised he’d divorce you.”
“I know. I read your messages.”
Lera lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? For taking someone else’s husband? Or for standing here right now?”
“For everything.”
I looked at her—at this young girl.
“Leave. You have nothing to do here.”
“But…”
“I said—leave.”
She hesitated, then turned and walked away.
For three days Sergei hovered between life and death.
I didn’t leave the hospital.
I sat in the corridor. Slept on a bench. Ate sandwiches.
The doctors kept saying: holding on. Fighting.
On the fourth day they moved him to a regular ward.
“You can go in. Ten minutes.”
I entered.
Sergei lay there—pale, thin.
He opened his eyes and saw me.
“Marina…”
His voice was weak and raspy.
“Hi.”
“You… you’re here?”
“Yes. The whole time.”
Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Forgive me. Forgive me…”
I took his hand.
“Shh. Not now. You need to get better.”
“Marina… I…”
“Shh. Rest.”
He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
For two weeks I took care of him.
Brought food. Clean clothes. Books.
Sat beside him. Read aloud. Stayed quiet.
Sergei recovered slowly.
He tried to talk, to explain.
I stopped him.
“Not now. Later.”
He obeyed. Thanked me. Cried.
Lera never came back.
Three weeks later he was discharged.
Home. Regimen. Rest. Medication.
I brought him in and laid him in bed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For not leaving. I didn’t deserve it…”
“No. You didn’t.”
A pause.
“Marina. I’ll tell you everything. Honestly. Do you want to hear it?”
“I don’t.”
“But…”
“Sergei. I know everything. I read the messages. I saw her. I talked to her.”
He lowered his eyes.
“And you still stayed?”
“I couldn’t leave you to die. That’s not human.”
“And now?”
I looked at him.
“Now you’re alive. Healthy. You can take care of yourself.”
“So…?”
“So I’m leaving.”
Sergei tried to sit up.
“Marina, wait…”
“Don’t. I’ve decided.”
“I love you. Truly. It was a mistake…”
“A mistake that lasted a year? You promised her a divorce.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t lie. You were going to. You just didn’t have time.”
He was silent.
“Sergei. You betrayed me. You lied to my face for a year. You talked about meetings—while you met her.”
“I’m sorry…”
“I forgave you. In the hospital. When I sat three days in the corridor, when you were between life and death—I forgave you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stay.”
That evening I packed.
Two bags. Documents. Photos.
Sergei sat on the bed and watched.
“Where are you going?”
“To a friend’s. Then I’ll rent a place.”
“Marina… give me a chance. I’ll change.”
“No. Trust doesn’t come back.”
“I love you.”
“And I don’t anymore.”
I picked up my bags and walked out.
The door closed behind me.
My friend Oksana took me in without questions.
“Stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you.”
That night I didn’t sleep. I thought.
Fifteen years. Half a life.
Over.
Did it hurt? Yes.
But I felt—it was right.
A month later I rented a one-room apartment.
Small. Bright.
I started setting it up—buying furniture, dishes, curtains.
Mine. Only mine.
Oksana helped.
“Marin, you’re amazing. Seriously.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t break. You left with dignity.”
“I’m just tired of lies.”
“That’s strength.”
Sergei called.
The first week—every day.
“Marina, let’s meet. Talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I miss you.”
“Call Lera.”
“I broke up with her.”
“That’s your problem.”
Then the calls stopped.
I signed up for classes. Yoga.
I’d wanted to for a long time—always too busy.
The instructor was Igor. Around forty. Calm.
After class we’d talk. Have tea.
“Marina, you’re doing well. The progress is obvious.”
“I’m trying. I need this. For myself.”
“Right. For yourself—that’s the most important thing.”
We started spending time together—walking after class.
Igor was divorced. His daughter was grown and lived separately.
“After my divorce I recovered for a long time. Almost a year. Then I realized—you have to live. For yourself.”
His words felt like they were about me.
Six months later Igor invited me to an exhibition.
“Marina, I know it sounds strange… but would you like to go?”
“I would.”
We walked through the halls, looked at paintings, talked.
Igor told me about the artists. I listened.
Afterward we walked in the park.
He took my hand.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
It felt calm. Easy. Honest.
A year passed.
A year of my new life.
I work. I do yoga. I’m seeing Igor.
We’re not rushing. Just dating. Getting to know each other.
No haste. No pressure.
I have my own apartment. He has his.
But we’re together—when we want.
Recently I ran into Sergei.
At a shopping mall. By chance.
He was walking alone. Older. Gaunt.
He saw me and stopped.
“Marina.”
“Hi, Sergei.”
“How are you?”
“Good. And you?”
“Fine. Working. Living.”
A pause.
“Marina… I still regret it. Every day.”
“Don’t. The past is past.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
He nodded, smiled sadly.
“I’m glad for you. Truly.”
I said goodbye and walked away.
And I realized—I didn’t care. At all.
That evening Igor and I sat on the balcony.
Drank tea. Watched the sunset.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“About how good my life is now.”
“Mine too.”
He hugged me and I leaned into him.
Quiet. Calm. Right.
Sometimes I think about that night.
The call. The hospital. The doctor.
“He was with his young wife.”
Back then—shock. Pain. The end.
Now I understand—it was the beginning.
The beginning of my strength.
I didn’t leave him to die.
But I didn’t allow myself to stay in a lie, either.
I left. With dignity.
I found myself. I found truth.
And that is worth more than any marriage.
Life doesn’t end with betrayal.
It shows you who you really are.
Strong. Worthy. Free.
I discovered myself.
And I will never betray myself again