Victor stood in the hallway, holding a travel bag. His knuckles were white where he gripped the handle. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, an icy ball forming in the pit of my stomach. I knew this day would come. I had felt it in my gut for months, a cold dread that followed me from room to room. But I had hoped, prayed, that I was wrong.
“I’m leaving,” Victor said, his voice muffled, his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor somewhere to my left.
I remained silent. I saw how his hands trembled, how he nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. After all our years of marriage, I knew him like the back of my hand. I knew every wrinkle near his eyes, every mole on his back. And now, looking at this broken, confused man, I knew I was losing him forever.
“To whom?” I finally managed to squeeze the words out, trying to keep my voice from breaking.
Victor hesitated. He looked away, as if the words were too heavy to speak. I waited, my breath caught in my throat.
“To Polina,” he whispered, finally lowering his head.
The name hit me like a physical blow. Polina. A young, ambitious intern from his office. I had always sensed something in the way she looked at Victor, a hunger that went beyond professional admiration. But I had pushed those thoughts away, refusing to believe them. How could you? I whispered, feeling the hot sting of tears welling in my eyes. “How could you do this to Kirill and me?”
Victor sighed, a long, weary sound. “I didn’t want it to happen this way,” he muttered. “I love Polina.”
I love her. Those three words sounded like a death sentence. I closed my eyes, the pain sharp as a shard of glass. I remembered our wedding, the birth of our son, Kirill, the future we had planned together. It all collapsed in that one, devastating moment.
“And the mortgage?” I asked, opening my eyes. “The debts? Did you even think about what we’ll live on?”
Victor shrugged, a gesture of helpless defeat. “I’ll help,” he promised. “I’ll send money.”
I let out a bitter laugh. I didn’t believe a single word. I knew Polina would bleed him dry, and there would be no time or money left for his real family.
“Go away,” I said, turning my back to him. “Just leave.”
Victor left without another word. The front door clicked shut, and I was alone. I stood there for a long time, unmoving, as if I had turned to stone. Then, a sob tore from my throat, and I slid down the wall to the floor. Tears gushed from my eyes, burning my cheeks. I cried out loud, like a child who has lost their favorite toy. I cried for a destroyed family, for broken dreams, for a love that had turned to ash.
How would I tell Kirill? What would I say to our son, who adored his father? How could I explain to an eleven-year-old that his dad wasn’t coming home because he’d fallen in love with another woman?
I finally pulled myself up and went to the living room. Kirill was at the table, doing his homework. He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, already full of anxiety.
“Mom, what happened?” he asked, frowning. “Why are you crying?”
I sat down next to him and pulled him into a hug. I didn’t know how to find the words. “Dad… Dad left,” I whispered, feeling the tears choke me again.
Kirill pulled away, his face a mask of shocked disbelief. “Where did he go?” he asked.
“To another woman,” I answered, trying to speak as calmly as possible.
Kirill’s face twisted in pain and incomprehension. He stared at a single point on the wall, then abruptly jumped up from the table and ran out of the room. I heard the door to his room slam shut.
After Victor left, life became a nightmare. Utility bills, food, the mortgage—it all pressed down on me with an unbearable weight. I was a nurse, but my salary alone wasn’t enough. I had to take on night shifts at the hospital just to make ends meet. I worked to the point of exhaustion, forgetting about myself, my health, my own needs.
Kirill withdrew into himself. He stopped smiling. He stopped sharing things with me. He seemed to build a wall around his heart, and I couldn’t break through. I felt his pain, a constant, dull ache in my own chest.
One day, returning from a grueling night shift, I found a note from Kirill on the table. “Mom, I love you. I will try to help you.” Tears welled up in my eyes again. I knew it wasn’t easy for him either. He was trying his best, but he was just a child.
The only ray of light in my dark life was my neighbor, Galina Petrovna. She was a kind, wise woman who became my rock. She came over every evening with tea and pies, listened to my complaints, and gave me advice.
“Don’t despair, Irina,” she’d say, stroking my hand. “Everything will get better. Life is striped; after a black streak, there is always a white one.”
I listened to her and I believed. I had to believe.
A few days later, Kirill came home from school and, with a mysterious air, said, “Mom, I took revenge on dad.”
I froze, the spoon stirring the soup on the stove stopping mid-air. Revenge? What did he mean? I cautiously turned to my son. He was sitting at the kitchen table, his face buried in a textbook, but I could see a spark of inner excitement in his eyes.
“Kiryusha, what do you mean, you took revenge?” I asked gently, trying not to show my alarm.
He raised his head. His gaze was a strange mixture of pride and guilt. “Well, I saw what he did to you. How you cried at night. I couldn’t just leave it like that,” he muttered, looking away.
My heart was beating wildly. What could an eleven-year-old have done? “Kiryusha, listen to me. Revenge is not the answer. It only breeds more evil. What did you do? Please, tell me,” I begged.
He hesitated. “Don’t worry, Mom. I just put something on his computer… and sent it to someone.”
“Sent what? To whom?” Panic was seizing me.
“Well, there were some documents about money… you know, dad always loved to count his money. I thought that if I scared him a little, he would feel ashamed and come back,” Kirill explained, looking at me with hope.
I recoiled in horror. “You found something on his work computer?”
“Yes. And I sent it to the emails that dad had in his correspondence. His boss was there, too.”
I exclaimed in a hushed, terrified voice, “Kirill, what have you done?”
Kirill frowned. “But I wanted to help you! So that he would come back!”
“My dear, you can’t help in this way! You should have talked to me before doing anything. Now we don’t know what the consequences will be,” I said, feeling my legs give way.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I felt cornered. On one hand, I was angry at Victor for his betrayal. On the other, I didn’t want him to lose his job, to become an outcast because of our son’s naïve act. Even though he had caused me so much pain, he was still Kirill’s father.
A week after Kirill did his deed, Victor called. His voice was filled with tears and despair.
“Irina,” he whispered, and there was no trace of the self-confidence with which he had once announced his departure. “I feel very bad.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. I didn’t want to hear his problems. I had more than enough of my own. But something inside me, some long-forgotten pity, made me remain silent and listen.
“What happened?” I asked dryly.
Victor choked back a sob. “Everything… everything came out.”
I pretended I didn’t know anything.
“I was fired, Irina. With a bang. Now I have no job, no money, nothing. My name… it’s on everyone’s lips. Everyone knows what I am.” His voice broke.
I felt a wave of nausea.
“And that’s not all,” Victor continued, as if not noticing my silence. “Polina… she just left. Packed her things and left. Said that she didn’t need a loser with debts.”
I wasn’t surprised. I had never believed in the sincerity of Polina’s feelings. But I had no time for schadenfreude.
“Vitya, what do you want from me?” I finally asked.
Silence reigned on the phone. It seemed that Victor was gathering his courage. “Help me, Ira. Please. I know I did a terrible thing. I ruined everything. But I don’t know what to do. I’m in despair. Help me figure it out, please.”
He was asking me for help. After all the pain he had caused. Did he really think I was capable of this? The images of the last weeks flashed through my mind: my tears at night, the fear for the future, the anxiety for Kirill. All of this was his fault. And now he was asking for help.
My voice was firm, devoid of anger or pity. “I can’t help you, Vitya. I don’t want to help you. You made your choice. You ruined your own life. Now you have to be responsible for your actions.”
“But Ira…” he started.
I interrupted him. “Goodbye, Vitya. And don’t call me anymore.”
I pressed the hang-up button and threw the phone aside. My hands were trembling. I felt devastated, as if after hard work. I felt sorry for Victor, but the pity could not outweigh the pain he had caused me.
In the evening, when Kirill returned from school, I decided to talk to him.
“Dad called today,” I said, watching his reaction. Kirill shuddered, but remained silent. “He was fired from his job.”
Kirill lowered his head. “I know,” he said quietly. “It’s my fault.”
“No,” I whispered. “You are not to blame for what happened. Your father is to blame. He made his choice. You just wanted to protect me.” Kirill burst into tears and cried on my shoulder. I understood that he needed time to realize everything that had happened, but I was there to support him.
Victor, having lost everything, unsuccessfully tried to get his family back. He came several times, crumpled and with an extinguished look, saying that Polina turned out to be not at all what she seemed, that work was the only thing that kept him afloat. And now he was nobody. I listened, but there was no room for pity in my heart. There was only fatigue and a firm conviction that the past was irretrievably destroyed.
“Vitya, understand, nothing can be returned,” I told him calmly. “You made your choice. You destroyed our family. I can’t trust you anymore, and I don’t want to.”
Paradoxically, Victor’s betrayal made me stronger. With the support of Galina Petrovna and my colleagues, I began to accept private orders for medical procedures. At first, it was small part-time jobs—injections, dressings, consultations. I went to my patients’ homes after work, tired, but happy that I had the opportunity to earn a little more money.
Gradually, there were more and more orders. I understood that I needed to expand, to open my own medical office. But where would I get the money?
I saved every penny. I took additional shifts. I studied information about small business loans. I shared my dream with Galina Petrovna. “I want to open my office,” I told her, “but I have no money.”
She listened carefully, then said, “Irochka, you have knowledge. You have experience. You have hands that heal. And money is a living thing. The main thing is to start.”
These words inspired me. I decided to take a risk. I took all my savings and rented a suitable room. It needed repairs, but I wasn’t afraid. I did everything with my own hands—painted the walls, laid linoleum, installed new plumbing. Colleagues helped me with the equipment. Someone gave me an old medical table, someone an apparatus for physiotherapy.
It was a small, but clean and bright room where there was everything necessary for first aid. I hung a sign on the door with the inscription “Medical Office.” I felt happy and proud. I did it. I was able to overcome all difficulties and start a new life.
The first patients came on the recommendation of friends. They were satisfied with my professionalism, my ability to listen and support. Gradually, all residents of the district learned about my office. People with various problems began to turn to me. I worked from morning to evening, sparing no effort.
My financial situation improved. I was able to send Kirill to a summer camp. I no longer felt poor and unhappy. I gained financial independence and self-confidence.
Once, walking with Kirill in the park, I saw Victor. He was sitting on a bench alone, dejected and aged. He looked at me, but I looked away. I had nothing to say to him. I looked at Kirill and smiled. He answered me with a smile. We joined hands and went on, to meet our new happiness.