They talked, laughed, and then started dancing. Afterward, he said, “I’ll walk you home.”
He returned alone in the morning. Without a single apology.
Katya sat in the kitchen, absentmindedly stirring the cold oatmeal in her bowl with a spoon. Her face was frozen, like a mask. Fifteen years of marriage, two children… and just like that, he left for another woman.
With Alla, whom Katya hadn’t seen since school until the night before. The digital clock above the microwave read six in the morning. The children would wake up soon, and she would have to explain something to them. But what would she say if she herself didn’t understand what had happened?
The two-bedroom apartment, inherited from her childless aunt, had always seemed like a safe haven. Now she felt the walls closing in on her, and the air was heavy and stifling.
When she and Artyom got married, the subject of housing wasn’t even discussed; it was clear they would live there. The apartment in the city center was a gift from fate. Artyom sometimes used phrases like “male pride” and “one’s own space,” but the possibility of avoiding a mortgage made up for those minor blows to his ego.
The soft creak of the front door startled Katya. Cautious footsteps were heard in the hallway.
Artyom appeared in the doorway, disheveled, his hair red-rimmed, and wearing the same shirt he’d worn the day before to meet up with old classmates. He smelled of another woman’s perfume.
“Is there any coffee?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
Katya silently pointed to the coffee maker. Inside, everything was buzzing, but she didn’t dare say a word. She was afraid that if she spoke, he’d either scream or burst into tears. And she couldn’t afford that, especially now that the children could wake up at any moment.
“Listen,” Artyom began, sitting across from her and holding the cup in his hands, “you’ve got it all wrong.”
“What did I get wrong?” Katya asked quietly. “That you left with another woman and came back at dawn?”
Artyom looked away.
Katya, you’re exaggerating. Nothing happened.”
“Don’t lie to me,” his voice sounded calm, even though everything inside was falling apart. “You smell like her perfume.”
“We just hugged goodbye.”
“STOP IT!” Katya slammed the table so hard that the cup jumped and spilled the coffee. “Don’t take me for a fool!”
Arseniy, sleepily, appeared in the doorway. At thirteen, he understood everything.
“What’s wrong?” the boy asked, looking from his father to his mother.
“Nothing,” Katya said quickly, changing her tone. “Dad’s back from a homecoming. Go get ready for school.”
Arseniy looked at his parents suspiciously, but didn’t argue. As their footsteps faded into the distance inside the apartment, Katya turned to her husband:
We need to talk. But not now. Tonight, when the children are in bed.
The day dragged on. Katya, on autopilot, took eight-year-old Bella to school, drove to the office where she worked as an accountant, and mechanically continued with her usual tasks. The numbers on her computer screen blurred before her eyes.
How could she? Fifteen years together. Would it really mean nothing?
Her colleagues looked at her in surprise, but didn’t ask questions. Katya had always been kind, smiling, and engaged in office conversations. Today she seemed a ghost of her former self.
Her phone vibrated.
At six in the evening, as she was leaving the building, Artyom was waiting for her at the entrance. He looked refreshed and rested, as if he hadn’t pulled a sleepless night. For some reason, that hurt Katya more than anything.
“I’ll take Bella,” he said instead of greeting her.
“No,” Katya replied firmly. “We’ll go together.”
They drove in silence. Only when they parked next to the school did Artyom turn to her:
“I have to explain.”
“Not here,” Katya interrupted. “At home.”
Bella ran out of school, saw her parents, and greeted them happily. Today she had two braids instead of one, like always, Katya noticed automatically. Maybe the teacher had braided them.
“Dad!” Bella ran into the backseat. “You promised we’d go to the amusement park on Sunday! Didn’t you forget?”
“Of course not, Princess,” Artyom smiled, but his voice sounded fake, and Katya noticed.
Had he planned it all from the beginning? The homecoming, Alla?
At home, Arseniy waited; he had already heated up dinner himself and was now engrossed in his homework. He only glanced briefly at his father before diving back into his textbooks.
“How was school?” Artyom tried to start a conversation.
“It’s fine,” his son murmured without looking up.
Katya bustled about preparing dinner, trying to avoid her husband’s gaze. Her hands worked mechanically: peeling potatoes, chopping vegetables, putting a pot on the stove. Daily actions she had repeated countless times.
Perhaps it was just a
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