“Is Lena planning to move in with us now?” I asked sarcastically, crossing my arms.
My husband barely looked up from his phone. “You’re overreacting,” he muttered.
“Overreacting?” I scoffed. “Or have you fallen under her spell—her cozy evenings and so-called culinary masterpieces? I cook just as well, if not better.”
I had always believed I was above jealousy. Turns out, I was wrong.
At forty, I entered my second marriage. The first had lasted five years before it ended in tragedy—my husband, once my safe haven, drowned himself in alcohol and, eventually, violence. I didn’t stick around to see how much worse it could get. I left, running from that life without looking back.
For ten years, I remained single. Men tried to pursue me, but I was cautious, unwilling to make the same mistake twice. And then he appeared—warm, kind, and patient. We dated for over a year before he proposed, and for the first time in a long time, saying “yes” felt right.
He was almost perfect. Almost.
The problem? His “best friend.”
Lena had been in his life since childhood, and she clearly assumed she had a permanent place in it. She inserted herself into our plans, dropped by unannounced, and spoke about their past as if I were merely an afterthought.
I tried to talk to my husband about it.
“Don’t you see how she’s crossing the line?” I asked one evening.
He waved me off. “Anya, stop. Lena and I have been friends since we were kids. She’s like a sister to me. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I sighed, feeling the frustration rise inside me. Why couldn’t he see how much this hurt?
A friend at work gave me a blunt suggestion: “Tell him it’s either you or her. Let’s see where his loyalty lies.”
But I didn’t want ultimatums. I didn’t want to be that kind of woman.
Yet Lena continued to test my patience. She popped in whenever she pleased, showing no regard for the fact that we were building a life together. What infuriated me most was the way she wove their shared past into every conversation, reminding me that she had been there long before me.
Then came the night that changed everything.
My husband stayed late at work. He ignored my calls, which was unusual for him, and after a while, his phone went completely silent. Anxiety gnawed at me. This wasn’t normal.
At midnight, he finally walked through the door—with Lena.
They were laughing, completely oblivious to my tense expression. I stood in the hallway, arms crossed, my stomach churning.
“It’s late, Lena. You should go home,” I said icily.
She blinked in surprise, lips parting as if to argue, but my husband must have sensed the storm brewing.
“Yeah, Lena, maybe you should head out,” he said quietly.
She scowled, clearly displeased, but obeyed. She grabbed her purse, muttered a half-hearted goodbye, and left.
The door had barely shut when I turned to him.
“Do you even realize how disrespectful that was?” I demanded.
“What are you talking about?” His brows furrowed in genuine confusion.
“You disappeared for hours, ignored my calls, then came home with her.”
“She picked me up from work, and we went to a movie,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
I stared at him, my disbelief turning to anger. “You went to the movies with her?”
“You don’t even like thrillers,” he shrugged. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
I clenched my fists. “Oh, of course. How could I ever compare to her?”
We argued into the night. Silence stretched between us for the next two days. We eventually made peace, but something between us had shifted.
Weeks later, on his birthday, I was determined to make the evening special—just the two of us, no interruptions.
“Make sure Lena knows she’s not part of tonight’s plans,” I told him in advance.
To my surprise, he agreed without resistance. “I already told her. She wasn’t happy, but she promised to stay away.”
Something about his easy acceptance unsettled me.
That evening, I went all out. His favorite sushi, a beautifully set table, candles flickering warmly. When he walked through the door, I felt a sense of satisfaction. This was how it should be. Just us.
Then—a knock at the door.
I knew before he even opened it.
Lena stood there, smirking, with an unfamiliar man by her side. “Relax,” she drawled. “I didn’t come to crash your romantic evening. I even brought a date.”
My stomach churned. She had found a loophole. She couldn’t be turned away now without making me look irrational.
I forced a smile and let them in.
The night was ruined. My carefully planned evening turned into an empty performance. I picked at my food, pretending to be engaged in conversation while my patience wore thin.
Then, from the hallway, I heard them—Lena and my husband, speaking in hushed tones.
“You know I’ve dreamed of you since childhood,” she whispered, her voice laced with something dangerously close to longing. “I need you. I can’t exist without you.”
I froze, my breath catching.
His reply came, heavy with exhaustion. “Lena, you’ve had too much wine. We’re just friends. You know that. I love my wife.”
Her voice hardened. “She isn’t worthy of you! Or have you really fallen for her cozy little life and home-cooked meals? I can cook just as well!”
The glass in my hand nearly shattered.
I had heard enough.
With swift, deliberate steps, I stormed toward them. Before Lena could react, I grabbed her by the collar of her blouse and spun her toward the door.
“What the hell—” she yelped, but I didn’t let her finish.
I shoved her out into the hallway. Her purse and shoes followed.
The door slammed shut.
A suffocating silence filled the apartment. My husband stood frozen, his eyes wide in shock.
The man Lena had brought looked pale, muttered something incoherent, and practically bolted out the door after her.
I turned to my husband, my voice eerily calm.
“Make your choice,” I said. “Me or her. But I will not tolerate her in our home ever again.”
He was silent.
And in that silence, I knew.
Maybe he wouldn’t cut her off completely. Maybe their connection would linger somewhere outside these walls.
But in my home, in my life—Lena had just been permanently erased.