Alina was driving through the city, glancing at the clock. It was already close to six—traffic on the bridge would start any minute, and she’d be stuck for at least half an hour. But her sister had promised to give her the apartment documents. She needed to submit them to the bank the next day to refinance the loan, and there was no time to delay.
She turned onto a familiar street, parked near the entrance, and took out her phone. She was about to call Sveta—that was her sister’s name—but changed her mind. What was the point if she was already there? She would run in for a minute, grab the folder, and leave. Sveta had to be home; her car was in the yard.
Alina stepped out of the car, adjusted her bag on her shoulder, and headed toward the building. It had been a long day—an extended meeting at the office, then a client who spent two hours unable to decide on a project. She was so exhausted she could think only of a hot bath and silence.
As she climbed to the third floor, she remembered how Sveta had recently complained about feeling lonely. Her husband was constantly away on business trips, the children had grown up and moved out, and her friends were busy with their own lives. Alina had promised to visit more often, but that promise had remained just words—there was never enough time.
She stopped at the door and reached for the bell, but noticed it was slightly open. Not wide open, but not locked either—like someone had stepped out for a moment and forgotten to close it. The hallway light was on, and quiet sounds came from deeper inside the apartment.
“Sveta?” Alina called as she stepped inside. “It’s me, Alina. Are you home?”
There was no reply.
She took off her coat, hung it on the hook, and listened. Muffled voices were coming from the kitchen. Maybe her sister was on the phone. Not wanting to interrupt, Alina quietly walked down the corridor and stopped, planning to wait.
Then she heard laughter.
A man’s laughter. Low, painfully familiar.
Alina froze as if struck by electricity. She knew that laugh by heart—she had heard it thousands of times over the past eight years. It was her husband Igor’s laugh.
She stood motionless, feeling cold spread through her body. Her heart pounded in her throat; her hands went numb. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe it was just someone with a similar voice. There were many people in the world who sounded alike.
But then he spoke, and there was no doubt.
“No, seriously, I thought it would be harder,” Igor said, his voice carrying a tone Alina hadn’t heard in a long time—light, relaxed, as if he were exactly where he belonged, at ease. “But everything worked out perfectly.”
“You worried for nothing,” Sveta replied softly, almost tenderly. “I told you it would.”
Alina slowly stepped back. She didn’t fully grasp what was happening, but she understood enough to feel something inside her tighten into a painful knot. She had come to her sister’s place for a minute—and found herself frozen when her husband’s voice came from the kitchen.
Igor was supposed to be at work. He had left that morning as usual, said he had meetings until evening, and promised to return late. Alina hadn’t even cooked dinner, knowing he would come home tired and she would quickly heat up something simple.
And he was here. At her sister’s. In the kitchen. Laughing.
Alina moved closer to the kitchen door, trying not to make a sound. Her legs carried her forward despite the voice of reason telling her to turn around and leave before they noticed her.
“Do you think we can meet this weekend?” Sveta asked. “Or will you come up with something again?”
“We can,” Igor answered confidently. “I’ve already planned it. I’ll say I’m going fishing with Maksim. Alina won’t check.”
Alina felt her knees weaken. She grabbed the doorframe to steady herself. Fishing with Maksim. He really had gone a month ago. He came back tanned and cheerful, telling her about catching a three-kilogram pike. So it hadn’t been fishing after all.
“Are you sure she won’t suspect anything?” Sveta’s voice carried anxiety. “She’s your wife. Women sense these things.”
“Alina doesn’t sense anything,” Igor laughed, and the contempt in his tone made her flinch. “She’s always busy with work, projects, loans. She doesn’t have time for me. She barely notices when I come home.”
Alina clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms. She did work a lot. She earned money, paid off the loans they had taken together—for the apartment, the car, the renovation. She tried. She invested in their life. And he called it neglect.
“But still,” Sveta lowered her voice, “I feel awkward. She’s my sister.”
“Then why did you start this?” Igor’s voice turned sharp. “No one forced you.”
Sveta was silent for a moment.
“I didn’t want to. It just happened. You came to me, remember? You said you were struggling, that home felt cold and empty…”
“And that’s true,” Igor interrupted. “Alina turned into a machine. Work, home, work, home. You can’t talk to her. She’s always busy, always rushing. With you it’s easy. Simple. Like before.”
Alina stepped away from the door. She couldn’t listen anymore. Every word struck her like a blow to the ribs. She turned slowly and looked at the hallway.
Igor’s jacket lay on a chair—the gray one she had given him for his birthday two years ago. His new shoes stood beside it. Everything looked ordinary, natural, as if he belonged there.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror: pale face, wide eyes, tight lips. She wasn’t crying or screaming. Inside there was only hollow silence.
Quietly she took her coat, slipped it on, and left the apartment, closing the door softly behind her.
Outside in the stairwell it was cool. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She needed to think. To understand what to do next. But no thoughts came—only a strange calm, as if this were happening to someone else.
She went downstairs, got into her car, started the engine, but didn’t drive. She simply sat there, staring through the windshield.
Igor and Sveta. Her husband and her sister. How long had this been going on? A month? Two? Half a year? She replayed recent events in her mind, searching for clues, but everything felt blurred.
Sveta often called, invited her over, asked how she was. Alina usually answered briefly because she was busy. Igor had often stayed late, said he was overwhelmed at work, that he needed to meet friends to unwind.
She had believed him. Why wouldn’t she? He was her husband. She trusted him.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Sveta: “Where are you? Did you forget the documents?”
Alina looked at the screen, locked it, and put the phone away. Not now.
She drove home.
On the way, the pieces fell into place: the fishing trip, the late nights, the sudden visit to his mother last month—he had gone alone, saying there was no need for Alina to come.
How many times had he lied? How many times had he looked into her eyes and said he loved her?
At home she turned on the lights and looked around. Everything was in its place: the couch, the dinner table, the bookshelves they had chosen together. Now it all felt like stage scenery.
She went into the bedroom, took out a suitcase, and began packing her things methodically—clothes, shoes, documents, jewelry.
Her phone vibrated again. Igor was calling.
She declined. Let him call.
When the suitcase was almost full, she heard the key turn in the lock. Footsteps rushed through the hallway.
“Alina!” Igor called, entering the bedroom. “Where were you? Why aren’t you answering?”
She turned slowly. He stood in the doorway, disheveled, flushed—clearly having rushed over.
“I was at your mistress’s place,” Alina said calmly, zipping the suitcase.
Igor froze. His face went pale.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I stopped by Sveta’s for the documents,” she replied. “And I heard your voice from the kitchen. You two were nicely discussing the weekend and fishing.”
He stood speechless.
“How long has this been going on?” she asked.
“Alina, I…”
“How long?”
He lowered his eyes. “Six months.”
She nodded. Six months of lies. Six months of sleeping beside her and pretending everything was fine.
“I see,” she said, lifting the suitcase. “I’m leaving.”
“Where?” he stepped forward. “Let’s talk! I’ll explain!”
“There’s nothing to explain. You slept with my sister for half a year. What is there to explain?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen!” he grabbed her arm. “I felt bad, you were always at work—”
“So you decided to sleep with my sister,” she finished, pulling her arm away. “Very mature.”
“Please, Alina! I love you! It meant nothing!”
She stopped at the door.
“If it meant nothing, it wouldn’t have lasted six months. If you loved me, you wouldn’t have touched my sister.”
“But the apartment! It’s ours! You can’t just leave!”
She gave a faint smile. “The apartment is mine. I bought it before we married. I’ll pay off the renovation loan myself. You have a week to move out.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“Yes. You don’t live here anymore.”
She left.
A week later Igor moved out. Alina hired a lawyer, filed for divorce, and divided their shared assets. The apartment remained hers. Igor kept the car and half of their modest savings.
Sveta tried to reach out—long messages, calls from unknown numbers. Alina ignored everything. She felt no desire for revenge. Those people simply no longer existed in her life.
Her mother called, cried, asked her to forgive her sister. Alina answered only, “No.”
Two months later she learned that Igor and Sveta had separated. Her mother called again, saying how miserable Sveta was.
“Let her be miserable,” Alina said. “I’m not her comfort.”
A year passed. Alina learned to live alone, and it wasn’t as frightening as she had once imagined. She worked, met friends, traveled. She felt free.
Once she ran into Igor at a shopping center. He was with a younger woman and looked tired. He froze when he saw her, but she walked past without stopping.
Sveta left a letter in her mailbox. Alina read part of it by the trash chute and threw it away unfinished. There was no forgiveness. And there wouldn’t be.
Sometimes her mother would ask if she had changed her mind. Alina always said, “No.” Eventually, her mother stopped insisting.
Alina did not see herself as a victim. She simply made a choice—to let go of those who had betrayed her and move on.
Two years later she met another man. He was honest and open, and she felt calm beside him. They took their time, not rushing into anything.
One day he asked why she rarely spoke about her family.
“Because family isn’t about blood,” Alina replied. “It’s about trust. And those who betray me are no longer family.”
He nodded, not pressing further. She was grateful for that.
Sometimes all it takes is a single voice from a kitchen to realize there is nothing left to return to—and no reason to try.