Valentina woke up to a faint sound. The room was dark; the clock read half past two. The space beside her was empty—Victor had gotten up and gone somewhere.
She listened. From the kitchen came her husband’s quiet voice. He was speaking carefully, almost in a whisper.
“I know it’s hard for you…” Valentina heard. “But just hold on a little longer.”
Who was he talking to at this hour?
She got up slowly and padded barefoot to the door. Her heart was hammering.
“I miss you too,” Vitya continued. “Tomorrow we’ll see each other, I promise.”
Valentina went still. In thirty years of marriage, her husband had never used that kind of gentle tone with her—at least not for a very long time.
“No, she doesn’t know anything,” his voice dropped even lower. “And it’s better this way for now.”
She? Was he talking about Valentina?
She pressed her back to the wall. Her knees felt weak.
“I’m sorry I have to hide it,” Victor sighed. “But you understand… it’s complicated.”
Someone replied on the other end, and Victor chuckled softly. Valentina couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard him laugh like that at home.
“Alright, alright. See you soon, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Valentina nearly stopped breathing. She hurried back to the bedroom and slipped under the blanket.
A minute later Victor returned. He lay down carefully, trying not to wake her. Valentina kept her eyes closed, thinking only one thing: Who was that “sweetheart”?
At breakfast the next morning, he acted normal. He scrolled through the news on his phone and drank his coffee.
“Sleep okay?” Valentina asked as if nothing was wrong.
“Yeah. Fine.”
“I heard someone walking around the apartment last night.”
Victor jerked and almost spilled his coffee.
“That was me… I got up to use the bathroom.”
A lie. Valentina knew it instantly. After all these years, she could read him.
“And I thought I heard someone talking in the kitchen,” she continued.
“Probably the neighbors. Or someone had their TV on.”
Another lie. He still wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
“Vitya, is everything okay?” she finally asked directly. “You’ve been… different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. You’re quieter. Always thinking.”
Victor stood up and put his cup in the sink.
“Work problems,” he said. “I don’t want to dump it on you.”
And he went off to get ready. Valentina stayed at the table, certain now—something was happening. Something serious.
All day she replayed the night conversation in her head. Sweetheart… I miss you… tomorrow…
Could Vitya really be seeing someone? At fifty-seven? After so many years of marriage?
Valentina looked at herself in the mirror. Wrinkles. Gray hair. Extra weight. When had she gotten so old?
Or maybe she hadn’t suddenly aged—maybe she’d just stopped taking care of herself. Relaxed. Decided, What’s the point now?
Tears tightened her throat. Had Vitya found someone younger? More beautiful?
That evening he came home late and said he’d been held up at work. But he smelled of unfamiliar perfume—women’s perfume.
“Want dinner?” Valentina asked.
“No, I already…”
Already what? Already ate? Where? With whom? She couldn’t bring herself to ask. She was afraid of the answer.
They went to bed without speaking. Victor fell asleep quickly, but Valentina lay awake, listening to every sound. What if he got up to call again?
The night passed quietly. But in the morning she noticed he kept checking his phone—reading messages and smiling.
Who was writing to him? And about what?
After breakfast Victor left for work, and Valentina remained at home with heavy thoughts. His phone was still on the charger—he’d forgotten to take it.
She stared at it for a long time. She had never snooped through anyone else’s things. Never. But now…
She picked it up with shaking hands. She didn’t know the passcode, but tried their wedding date. Wrong. Their daughter’s birthday. Wrong again.
Then she remembered—Vitya had changed his password recently. Maybe it was something new.
She entered random numbers. On the fifth try, the phone unlocked.
At the top of his messages was an unfamiliar number. The thread was long—nearly every day.
“How are you? I missed you,” the latest text from yesterday read.
“I miss you too. Just hang on a little longer,” Victor replied.
“When will we meet?”
“Tomorrow after work. Same place.”
Valentina sank onto a stool. Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone.
She scrolled up. The messages were full of tenderness: “my sweet girl,” “sweetheart,” “big kisses.”
Who was this woman? And how long had this been going on?
The phone vibrated—an incoming call. That same number.
Panicking, Valentina declined it, put the phone back, and fled into the other room.
An hour later she called her daughter.
“Nastya, can you talk right now?”
“Of course, Mom. What happened? You sound upset.”
“I… Nastya, do you think Dad has changed lately?”
“In what way?”
“He’s more secretive. Doesn’t talk much.”
Nastya was quiet for a moment.
“Mom… what’s going on?”
“Nothing special. Just… mother’s intuition.”
“Then maybe talk to him honestly? Ask him straight what’s wrong.”
“And if he…”
“If he what?”
Valentina couldn’t say her suspicion out loud.
“Forget it. It’s stupid.”
“Mom, are you sure you don’t want to tell me?”
“I don’t. Not yet.”
That evening Victor came home looking grim.
“I left my phone at home,” he said right from the doorway.
“Yes, I saw it,” Valentina answered. “No one called.”
She lied without blinking—and her husband let out a relieved breath.
“Tomorrow I’ll be late after work,” he announced over dinner.
“Again?”
“We’ve got an inspection. A lot to do.”
What inspection? Vitya had been a machinist at a factory for twenty years. There were no “inspections” like that.
“What time will you be home?”
“I don’t know. Late.”
So—late because of his “sweetheart.”
Valentina went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned until morning, turning plans over in her head.
Maybe she should follow him. Find out who the woman was.
In the morning, as Victor was getting ready, she noticed he pulled out his best shirt—the one he wore only on holidays.
“Dressing up,” she remarked.
“Small work get-together,” he said.
Another lie. A “get-together” on a Wednesday?
After he left, Valentina searched the apartment. In the pocket of his jacket she found a napkin from a café called Cozy Courtyard. They had never been there together.
And in his desk drawer she found a note. A woman’s handwriting: “I’m waiting. Don’t be late. Kisses.” And an address—15 Mira Street.
Her heart jolted. So they met at the mistress’s place.
Valentina sat on the couch and cried. Thirty years of marriage. Thirty years.
And now what? Divorce? Starting over at fifty-nine?
But she had to know the truth. Otherwise she would go mad from suspicion.
On Saturday, Valentina followed her husband. Vitya left the house at two o’clock, saying he was going to see his friend Petrovich.
She put on dark sunglasses and a headscarf and trailed him from a distance.
Victor boarded a bus downtown. Valentina took the next one. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure everyone could hear it.
On Mira Street she watched him enter the building at number fifteen—exactly the address from the note.
Valentina waited five minutes and went in after him. On the intercom she found the right apartment—23, under the name Morozova.
Who was Morozova? Younger? Divorced?
Valentina climbed to the second floor and stood by the stairwell window. From there she could see the door to apartment 23.
She waited for an hour and a half. Her legs went numb, her back ached. But her need to know was stronger than her urge to leave.
Finally, the door opened. Victor stepped out—and behind him was a woman of about forty-five. Tall, slim, beautiful.
“Thank you so much,” Valentina heard the woman say. “Without your help, I wouldn’t have managed.”
“Oh, come on,” Victor answered. “I’m doing it for family.”
Family? What family?
The woman hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Of course. I’ll bring the documents.”
What documents? Divorce papers?
Morozova shut the door, and Victor headed for the exit.
Valentina barely managed to hide around the corner. Tears choked her. That was it. Thirty years of marriage—over.
At home she sat in the kitchen and sobbed. What now? How was she supposed to live?
Victor returned that evening cheerful.
“Had a great time with Petrovich,” he said.
“Yeah,” Valentina replied. “I can tell.”
“What do you mean, you can tell?”
“You look happy.”
Victor grew wary.
“Val, why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You are. What’s wrong?”
Valentina couldn’t hold it in anymore. Thirty years of silence, of endurance—and now what, keep swallowing it?
“I’m sick of your lies!”
“What lies?”
“You weren’t with Petrovich! You were with your mistress on Mira Street!”
Victor went pale and sat down.
“You… followed me?”
“I did! What else was I supposed to do? You lie, you hide things, you whisper on the phone at night!”
“Valya, you don’t understand…”
“Oh, I understand perfectly!” she cried. “You found yourself someone young and beautiful! And what am I—old and useless now?”
Valentina was sobbing, shouting—thirty years of resentment spilling out at once.
“You think I don’t see it? You glow when you’re with her, and you come home gloomy!”
“Val, calm down. I’ll explain.”
“Explain what? I saw her kiss you!”
“Who kissed me?”
“Your Morozova! That beauty!”
Victor looked at his wife strangely.
“Morozova… so you learned her last name too?”
“I did! And what now—are we getting divorced?”
Victor exhaled heavily and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Valya, sit down. Morozova isn’t my mistress.”
“Then who is she?”
“She’s… my sister.”
“What sister? You don’t have a sister!”
“I do,” Victor said quietly. “Lena. She got married and changed her last name.”
Valentina froze. Lena? The same Lena they’d had a falling-out with twenty years ago over an inheritance? After Victor’s mother died, they had stopped speaking.
“Lena came back to town,” Victor continued. “Her husband left her. She has no money, nowhere to live. I’m helping her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“And what would you have done?” he asked. “Welcomed her with open arms?”
Valentina said nothing. She wouldn’t have. She had held that old grudge tightly.
“I’m sorry,” Victor said softly. “I knew you’d be against it, so I hid it.”
Valentina sat in silence, her thoughts tangled. Lena—his sister, not a mistress.
“She’s sick,” Victor went on. “Diabetes. The medication is expensive, and she can’t find work. I’m helping her get her documents sorted for assistance.”
“And the night calls?”
“She has bad episodes—panic attacks. She calls when it gets unbearable.”
Valentina remembered the words she’d overheard: I miss you… sweetheart…
“You spoke to her so tenderly.”
“She’s my little sister,” Victor said. “I always looked out for her.”
“And why hide it from me?”
Victor looked at her wearily.
“Because I know you, Val. You’re stubborn. You’ve carried that hurt for twenty years.”
Valentina wanted to argue—then realized he was right. She would never have let Lena into their home.
“We could’ve talked,” she said more quietly.
“We could’ve,” Victor agreed. “But I was a coward. I was afraid of how you’d react.”
They sat at the kitchen table in silence while the sky outside grew dark.
“I thought you were going to leave me,” Valentina admitted.
“Leave you for who—Lena?” he asked.
“For some mistress. Someone young.”
Victor came over and put his arms around her shoulders.
“You’re ridiculous. A mistress at fifty-seven?”
“It happens.”
“With other people, maybe,” he said. “I’m too old for those games.”
Valentina leaned into him. How long had it been since he’d held her like that?
“So… you’re not cheating?”
“I’m not.”
“And you’re not leaving?”
“I’m not leaving. Where would I be without you?”
The next day Victor brought Lena to their home. Valentina greeted her sister-in-law stiffly—but without hostility.
Lena looked unwell. Thin and pale, with sunken eyes.
“I’m sorry it turned out like this,” Lena said. “I didn’t want to put Victor in an awkward position.”
“And I deserved to know the truth,” Valentina replied.
The three of them sat at the table with tea, speaking carefully, without accusations.
“Remember how we used to split candy when we were kids?” Victor asked.
“You always gave me the bigger half,” Lena smiled.
“And Mom used to scold me for spoiling you.”
Valentina listened and understood: this was family. Not perfect—full of arguments and old wounds—but still family.
“Lena,” Valentina said, “why don’t you move in with us for a while? We have a spare room.”
Lena looked at her, stunned.
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You won’t be,” Valentina said. “It’s hard on your own.”
Victor squeezed his wife’s hand in gratitude.
That evening, after Lena left to collect her things, Victor and Valentina were alone again.
“Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t expect this from you.”
“I didn’t expect it from myself either,” she admitted. “But I realized—I’m tired of being angry.”
“You were angry for twenty years.”
“I was foolish for twenty years,” she said. “I let money break the family.”
Victor hugged her and kissed the top of her head.
“At least you’re wiser now.”
“Not wiser,” she said. “I just learned the difference between suspecting your husband of cheating… and letting his sister back into your life.”
Victor chuckled.
“And if I really had been cheating?”
Valentina thought for a moment.
“I probably would’ve killed you.”
“Good,” he said. “Means you still love me.”
“I do, idiot,” she murmured. “But next time, don’t hide anything. Deal?”
“Deal.”
A month later Lena found a job and rented a small apartment nearby. But she came by every weekend.
And Valentina stopped eavesdropping on nighttime calls and stopped digging through her husband’s phone. She understood something simple at last: trust is worth more than jealousy.
And their family turned out to be stronger than suspicion.