A year. A full year my sister, Masha, kept feeding me renovation excuses.
“Katya, how could you come over? There’s dust up to my knees—everything’s covered in plastic.”
“No, not today—I’m waiting for the workers. I’m basically living out of suitcases.”
“It stinks of paint so badly you can’t even breathe.”
At first I believed her gladly. Masha has always been chaos in the flesh. Starting a massive remodel and getting stuck halfway through—that’s completely her.
Then I started getting tired of it.
“Mash, at least let me come and help you haul the trash out?”
“No, no, Kat. The crew is… particular. They don’t like strangers. I can barely stand them myself.”
The last couple of months she’d been complaining that the workers had vanished entirely, and she was “living on boxes” in one room, trying to finish everything on her own.
I believed her. I pictured stripped walls and bags of cement.
So today I showed up without calling. I decided she’d struggled alone long enough. I’d help. I ordered hot food so we could eat in the middle of the mess, and I brought an expensive monstera in a pot—for warmth, for comfort, for her “updated” apartment.
I rang the bell, braced for a cloud of plaster dust and her screech—Are you crazy? I’m not ready!
The door opened.
Oleg stood there.
My husband.
He was wrapped in a terry robe. Not his own gray one from home—this one was white, clearly a woman’s, and it barely met across his shoulders.
A smell rolled out from the apartment. Not paint. Not dust.
It smelled like someone else’s life. Morning life. Fresh coffee and something sweet and floral—Masha’s perfume. And beneath it all, thick and painfully familiar, the scent of Oleg’s cologne.
He looked at me without surprise. Only annoyance.
“Katya? Bad timing.”
My hands didn’t even shake. The monstera felt ridiculous and heavy.
I just stared at him. At the white robe. At his bare feet on Masha’s entryway mat.
“Renovations,” I said. My voice sounded foreign—flat, steady.
Oleg tightened the belt of the robe.
“Kat, not here.”
“Then where?” I took a step—not inside, just closer.
I looked past his shoulder. The hallway was perfect. No plastic. No rubble bags. Smooth walls, new laminate, an expensive carved mirror.
His coat hung on the rack.
His. The one he’d left in this morning for an “important meeting.”
Next to it were his shoes, neatly lined up beside Masha’s bunny slippers.
“I came to help,” I said, still in that dead, calm voice. “My sister. With the renovations.”
Oleg finally looked away. He felt ashamed—not for what he’d done, but for being caught so stupidly.
“Go home,” he said. “I’ll come by. We’ll talk.”
“You’re already home, Oleg.”
From deeper inside came Masha’s sleepy, spoiled voice:
“Olezhik, who is it? If it’s the courier, tell them we’re asleep!”
Oleg flinched and slammed the door.
Right in my face.
I stood in the dim stairwell, the monstera in my arms. The bag of hot food burned my fingers.
I don’t remember how I got downstairs. I don’t think I even called the elevator. I walked—one flight after another—and the heavy ceramic pot dragged at my arms.
In the car I set the monstera on the passenger seat—the same spot where he’d been sitting this morning, kissing my cheek and promising, “I won’t be late.”
I threw the food into the back.
I drove on autopilot. The world narrowed to red lights and wet asphalt.
I walked into our apartment.
It smelled like me. And him. Our shared scent. Now it felt fake—like cheap perfume pretending to be expensive.
I went into the living room. On the wall hung a photo of the three of us: me, Oleg, Masha. Summer barbecue. We’re laughing, hugging. Masha’s holding my hand.
I sat on the couch. Put the monstera on the floor.
And I began to remember.
Every lie I’d swallowed floated up to the surface.
“I’ll be late, Katyusha—urgent project.”
“Can’t Saturday, the guys and I are going fishing.”
“My phone died, sorry—I didn’t hear your calls.”
Fishing. Projects. Important meetings.
A year. A full year of “renovations.” A full year of “important meetings.”
I remembered something from about three months ago. We were having dinner. Oleg’s phone buzzed. “Masha.” He declined the call.
I asked, “Is something wrong?”
And without blinking he said, “No, she’s whining about her renovation again. I told her I’d swing by and take a look.”
He “swung by.”
They weren’t just meeting up. They were living. Living a few blocks away from me. He had breakfast with her, then drove to me—“home.” Or the other way around?
How many times had he showered at her place, washing off her scent before climbing into bed with me?
His phone buzzed on the table.
“Oleg.”
I didn’t answer. It buzzed again and again. Then a text: “I’m coming home. We need to talk.”
Home. He called my home “home.” The nerve.
I waited. I didn’t even change. I sat there in my coat, staring at the stupid plant.
A key turned in the lock.
Oleg walked in. He was already back in his suit—the one for “important meetings.” Tie loosened a little. He looked tired and irritated. He must have bolted from her place to get here before I could.
“Katya.” He stopped in the hallway.
“You changed,” I observed. “Fast. The robe suits her.”
“We need to talk.”
“Yes. We do.”
He went into the room and glanced at me, then at the monstera.
“This isn’t what you think,” he began—the most cliché, pathetic line on earth.
“Then what do I think, Oleg?”
“It’s complicated. It… it didn’t start yesterday. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Didn’t want to hurt me?” The absurdity stole my breath. “A year. You lied to my face for a year. You—and my sister. You lived at her place while I, like an idiot, believed your emergencies and her ‘renovation.’”
“We didn’t ‘live’ there,” he grimaced. “I… I stopped by.”
“Stopped by for mornings so you could open the door in her bathrobe? Your slippers are there. Your coat is hanging there.”
He looked away.
“With her… it’s different. She understands me.”
“Understands you.” I nodded slowly. “Understands how to lie to her sister. How to sleep with her sister’s husband.”
“You’re simplifying everything!” He started getting angry—attack as defense. “You were always buried in work, in your thoughts. You always had a headache. And Masha…”
“And Masha what?”
“She’s just… warm.”
Warm. My little sister—the one I carried in my arms. The one I helped with homework. The one I rescued from every stupid mess. Warm.
“She stole my husband and a year of my life. Yes. A real model of warmth.”
“I’m not an object to be stolen!” he snapped. “It’s my choice!”
“So that’s it. A choice.” I stood up; my legs barely held me. “Fine. I want details.”
“Why? To hurt yourself more?”
“So I can understand who I lived with for ten years. How did you do it, Oleg? How did you look me in the eyes after being with her?”
“It won’t change anything.”
“You’re wrong.”
I looked at the monstera in its expensive pot—the symbol of my blind faith.
“I came to help. With renovations.”
I picked up the pot. It was heavy. Oleg flinched, thinking I’d throw it.
But I only walked to the front door and opened it.
“Leave.”
“What? Katya, it’s night. Don’t be stupid.”
“Leave. Go to her. It’s ‘warm’ there. The renovation’s done. It’s not far.”
“You’re emotional right now…”
“You already chose where your home is, Oleg. You just forgot your coat there when you rushed to me for your ‘important meeting.’”
He stared at me. There was no remorse in his eyes—only anger. Anger that his cozy double life had collapsed.
“You’ll regret this,” he threw at me.
“I already do,” I said, my voice ringing. “Every minute I believed you.”
He grabbed his keys and wallet from the little table and walked out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
I turned the lock. Once. Twice.
Then I went back into the living room—to an empty apartment.
The monstera stayed by the door.
I sat on the floor. And only then did I allow myself to breathe.
I sat there a long time. My body went numb. The apartment hummed—the way a refrigerator hums when there are no other sounds left.
I got up and went into the bathroom.
His toothbrush. His shaving foam. His towel.
I took a black trash bag and shoved it all inside.
His slippers in the hallway. His mug in the kitchen. The magazine he’d never finished on the couch.
Everything went into the bag.
I opened the closet in the bedroom.
His shirts. Suits. T-shirts. Everything smelled like him—the smell I used to think of as “ours.”
I knocked hangers to the floor one after another.
The shirt I’d given him for our anniversary.
The stupid T-shirt he slept in.
His workout gear.
I gathered it all up, without pity.
Suddenly my phone rang. I startled.
On the screen: “Masha.”
I froze with his sweater in my hands. My fingers trembled.
I hit accept.
“Katya?” My sister’s voice was frightened, thin. “Katya, where are you? Oleg came—he’s… he’s furious. What did you say to him?”
I said nothing. I just listened to her voice—the voice of the sister who’d lied to me for a year.
“Kat, don’t be silent! Were you at my place?”
“I was.”
“Why did you come? I told you I’m renovating!”
That automatic lie—even now—made something in me flare.
“Renovating?” I repeated, my voice low and rough. “Masha, his coat is hanging in your hallway.”
She went quiet. And then… she started crying.
“Katya, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! It… it just happened!”
There it was again: “I didn’t want to hurt you.” “It just happened.” One script for two people.
“Just happened?” I pulled his running shoes out of the closet. “A year. For a year it ‘just happened.’”
“You don’t understand!” she shrieked. “You always had everything! A job, an apartment, a husband! You were always the perfect one, the strong one! And me?”
“And now you have my husband.”
“He loves me!” she shouted. “He said I’m alive, I’m warm! And you… you’re like a statue. Always tired, always busy.”
Warm. Again. Their secret password.
“I was busy, Masha,” I said, stuffing his sweater into the bag. “I was working while you were entertaining yourself with my husband.”
“We love each other!” Her voice hardened. The tears vanished. Now she attacked. “And this is more honest! He would’ve left you anyway!”
“Yes. Maybe.”
“Katya, you’re the older one. You’re wise. You’ll understand…”
“I will.”
I looked at the photo on the wall—three of us laughing.
“I understand everything now, Masha,” I said calmly, shifting the phone to my other hand. “I understand I don’t have a sister anymore.”
“What? Don’t say that! Mom—”
“Mom?” I cut in. “Did you think about Mom when you were sleeping with Oleg? When you were lying to me about renovations?”
“Katya, don’t…”
“Live,” I said. “Your renovation is lovely. And that white robe suits you. I mean—him.”
I ended the call.
And immediately blocked her number.
Then I blocked Oleg’s.
I took the photo off the wall, slid it out of the frame.
Folded it in half. Then in half again.
Then I pulled out a second trash bag. And a third.
I worked all night.
By morning, nothing in the apartment reminded me of him. Three huge black bags stood by the door.
Next to them, like an orphan, stood the monstera.
I carried the bags out into the stairwell and ordered a cargo taxi.
Then I took the pot with the plant and carried it outside.
It was cold—early morning. A janitor was sweeping the pavement.
I set the monstera near the building entrance. Not by the dumpsters. Just by the entrance.
Maybe someone would take it.
I went back into an empty, clean apartment.
It smelled only of me. And dust from books.
I opened all the windows.
Wind wandered through the rooms, making cupboard doors clap—the very furniture Oleg and I had chosen together. “Forever.”
I closed the windows. Silence settled.
The adrenaline that had kept me upright all night drained away. What remained was a dull, aching emptiness.
I went into the kitchen and, mechanically, switched on the coffee machine. It whirred. His favorite blend.
I turned it off. Threw the beans out. Made myself an ordinary teabag.
Sat at the table.
“You’re like a statue.” “She’s warm.”
Maybe they were right. Maybe I’d played the role of “strong, wise Katya” for so long that I stopped being alive. I’d been everyone’s support for years—him with his “projects,” Masha with her endless “problems,” Mom…
The phone rang. I knew who it was.
“Mom.”
I answered.
“Katya! Katyusha, what’s going on?”
Her voice was frightened, but not sympathetic. It was… condemning.
“Masha called me, she’s sobbing. She says you threw Oleg out! Have you lost your mind?”
That was it. Not “What happened to you?” but “What have you done?”
“Mom,” I took a sip. The tea tasted like nothing. “Oleg cheated on me. With Masha.”
I waited for a pause. For shock. For outrage.
“Oh Lord…” Mom exhaled. “Mashenka… she’s so… she always falls for the wrong men. And Oleg…”
She was. Excusing them.
“Mom. He’s my husband. She’s my sister. They lied to me for a year.”
“Katya, don’t be a child!” Mom’s voice firmed up, that familiar steel in it. “So it happened. Men are men. And Masha… it’s always been harder for her than for you. You’re the smart one, the strong one. She’s weak.”
“Warm.” “Weak.”
They had all agreed on a lifetime verdict: I’m strong, so it’s allowed to hurt me—I’ll survive. Masha is weak, so she must be pitied even when she betrays.
“You need to be wiser,” Mom preached. “Talk. Sit down the three of you. You need to forgive… Family is what matters.”
“Family?” I repeated. “I don’t have one anymore.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! You’re angry! Think about Masha—her heart is bad! And Oleg…”
“And Oleg,” I interrupted, “already chose. He’s with her. And apparently you are, too.”
“Katyusha, I’m not taking sides! I just want things handled decently! You’re the older one, you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I said, and even I was surprised at how steady it sounded.
“I’ve always been the one who had to. Had to understand. Had to forgive. Had to be strong. Enough.”
I caught my reflection in the dark screen of the turned-off TV.
A tired woman. Not a statue. Just exhausted.
“Mom. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You can’t just cross your sister out!”
“She did that for me. A year ago. When she started her ‘renovation.’”
I hung up.
I sat in my empty, clean apartment. For the first time in ten years, no one expected me to be “wise.” No one demanded I be “warm” or “strong.”
They all chose each other.
They left me alone.
Six months passed.
I filed for divorce the same day I threw Oleg out. The divorce went quickly. He didn’t fight it. The apartment was mine—I’d bought it before the marriage. There was nothing to split except a couple of vases and a set of pots. He didn’t even come for what was left of his things—the bags I’d put out.
The first month felt like thick, ugly sleep. I went to work. Came home. Ate whatever I grabbed on the way. Went to bed.
The hum of the refrigerator became my only roommate.
Mom called a few more times with the same demand: “Be wiser.” I stopped picking up.
Then all of them disappeared.
I didn’t change jobs. I didn’t move to another city. I simply lived.
I threw out the old sofa where Oleg and I had sat. Bought myself a deep armchair and a floor lamp.
I started reading books he’d called “boring.” Bought a decent turntable and listened to vinyl.
On Saturdays I began going to the market for fresh flowers. Not for someone else. For me.
The apartment started to smell different—dusty old pages, beeswax, lemons.
I got used to it. To the absence of someone else’s footsteps in the hallway. To not having to explain why I was “tired again.”
And yesterday Mom called again. I hadn’t answered in five months. This time, I did.
Her voice was different. Not demanding—crying.
“Katya, sweetheart. Please. I’m begging you.”
I stayed silent.
“I can’t do this anymore!” she sobbed. “They’re driving me insane!”
“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked, indifferent.
“Masha! And your Oleg! They’re… they’re tearing at each other like dogs!”
I listened.
“That ‘warmth’ of theirs—do you know what it turned out to be? He throws it in her face that she stole him from the family. That because of her he ‘lost everything.’ And she—she shrieks that he doesn’t appreciate her! That he keeps comparing her to you!”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t feel glee. Only disgust.
“He said you were… real. And Masha’s an empty shell. And she screamed back that he’s just an aging loser who got fooled by a young body!”
“Mom. Why are you telling me this?”
“Katya! She kicked him out! He came to me! He’s living in my living room! And Masha calls me a hundred times a day, crying, demanding I send him back! I’m between them like—”
“Like between us back then?” I asked softly.
Mom went quiet.
“You chose then,” I continued. “You said Masha was ‘weak.’ And I was ‘strong.’ So be strong for them now.”
“Katyusha! He… he asked about you. Says he understood everything. That he was wrong. He wants to talk…”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“He won’t talk to me. And you won’t either. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I’m not your support anymore, Mom. I’m not the ‘wise one’ and not the ‘strong one.’ I’m just… living.”
“Are you abandoning me?” Her voice trembled with hurt. “Your own mother?”
“You abandoned me,” I said. “Six months ago. When you told me I had to ‘forgive.’”
I ended the call.
And I blocked her number. For good.
I went to the window. Evening was falling. The city was lighting up.
In the lobby of our building, on the little table by the concierge’s desk, something green was spreading.
My monstera.
Valentina Petrovna, the concierge, had taken it the very day I left it outside. Nursed it back to health. And now it stood there—huge and glossy, its leaves splayed wide.
Sometimes, as I walked past, I’d nod at it like an old acquaintance.
It survived. And it sent out new shoots.
I turned away from the window and switched on the lamp.
Picked up a book.
The apartment was quiet.
And it was a good kind of quiet.