Vera pulled up to the tidy two-story house and turned off the ignition. She glanced at her watch—she was early, by nearly thirty minutes. A small smile played on her lips. Just enough time to stop by that old bakery on the corner, the one her sister had always loved. Natalia used to say their blueberry pie tasted like childhood.
She checked her reflection in the mirror tucked inside her purse. Fifty hadn’t been unkind to her. A few silver strands at her temples, the kind of lines around her eyes that only appeared when she smiled. She’d chosen her outfit carefully today: a deep navy dress Viktor had always complimented and the pearl earrings Natalia had given her for her fortieth birthday.
Thinking of her husband made her expression cloud. Something had shifted between them lately—unspoken things, widening silences. Late nights at the office, vague business trips, a quiet detachment that had crept in slowly and settled like fog. Vera had tried to brush it off. Twenty-five years of marriage had to carry some friction, didn’t it?
Pie box in hand, she approached the house. Natalia had moved here only a month ago, freshly divorced and eager for a new beginning. “New place, new life,” she’d said, laughing on the phone. Vera had been excited to finally see it.
She used the spare key Natalia had given her—“just in case”—and stepped inside. The house was dimly lit, the curtains drawn. Faint music floated through the air—smooth, low jazz. She called out softly, “Natasha?”
No response. But voices murmured somewhere ahead. Smiling, Vera followed them. Maybe Natalia had company—a neighbor? She imagined the look of surprise on her sister’s face when she saw the pie. She stepped into the living room, ready to announce herself—
—and stopped cold.
The box slipped from her hands and thudded to the floor.
On the couch, in the candlelit warmth of the room, her sister Natalia was curled into the arms of a man. Her head rested comfortably on his chest. The man was Viktor.
For a moment, Vera thought she might faint. The wine glasses. The soft laughter. The unspoken intimacy. Her brain screamed for explanation, but her mouth stayed still.
When Viktor finally saw her, he jolted upright. Natalia froze, her face drained of color.
“Surprise,” Vera said, her voice hollow and mechanical. “Wasn’t expecting me early, were you?”
Natalia stood abruptly, pulling down her dress as if modesty mattered now.
“Vera, I—” she began, but the words withered.
Viktor stood slowly, awkwardly, like a boy caught cheating on a test. He looked stunned, guilt-ridden, and utterly pathetic.
“No need,” Vera said, voice sharp. “I get it now. So that’s why you insisted on meeting at six. Buying time, right? Hoping I wouldn’t catch the ending of your little romance movie?”
The late nights. The strange phone calls. The last-minute trips to cities where Natalia happened to be “attending conferences.” Suddenly, all the missing puzzle pieces clicked into place.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Viktor muttered, stepping toward her.
Vera raised a hand. “Don’t. Not now, Vitya. You want me to believe this is just a misunderstanding? That the candles, the wine, and your arm wrapped around my sister mean nothing?”
She looked around, really looked this time—the wine was his favorite. The dessert—Natalia’s favorite. The photo on the mantle of all three of them from last summer, smiling on a beach. Vera had thought they were happy then. What a fool she’d been.
“You always envied me, Natasha,” she said quietly. “Even as kids. My books, my grades, my friends. But I never thought you’d take my husband too.”
Natalia’s voice cracked. “It’s not envy. We didn’t plan it. We… it just happened.”
“Oh, how convenient,” Vera replied, stepping closer. “You just fell… into his arms, did you?”
Viktor attempted to calm things, pouring a drink. “Let’s sit and talk. Please.”
She laughed, bitter and sharp. “You think a drink fixes this? After twenty-five years?”
She walked to the table, picked up a wine glass, and downed it. The sting of it matched the burn in her throat.
“You know the cruelest part?” she said softly. “I came here today to ask for help. I thought maybe I could save my marriage. I thought maybe the problem was me.”
Natalia visibly flinched.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered.
“Didn’t you?” Vera looked her in the eye. “Then who did you mean to hurt? A stranger? Or did you just not care who got crushed?”
Viktor stepped forward again. “Vera, we never wanted to—”
“Spare me,” she snapped. “You wanted each other. You took each other. All you had to do was tell me. But you didn’t. You crept behind my back like thieves.”
She looked down at her wedding ring. A simple gold band. She’d worn it for more than two decades. Slowly, she slid it off and placed it on the table.
“Keep it,” she said. “Add it to the things you stole.”
As she turned to leave, Natalia pleaded, “Please… let’s just talk.”
“Talk?” Vera said over her shoulder. “You had six months to talk. Now it’s my turn—to walk.”
She closed the door behind her without looking back.
—
Three months later.
Vera sat in her new apartment, flipping through the finalized divorce papers. It had been cleaner than expected. Viktor hadn’t resisted—no fights, no bargaining. Whether out of guilt or relief, he’d let her go.
Her phone buzzed. Another message from Natalia. Over a dozen now—each one unread:
“Please forgive me.”
“I know I don’t deserve it, but I miss you.”
“Can we just talk?”
She deleted them all.
Then she opened a photo of the two of them as children—arms wrapped around each other, wide smiles across sunlit faces. She stared at it for a moment, then calmly dragged it to the trash.
“Some things you have to let go,” she whispered.
She stood at the window and looked out at the city, washed in the orange glow of sunset. Her new job at the publishing house was unexpectedly fulfilling. The team was kind. Just yesterday, she’d accepted an invitation to the theater from the marketing director. It wasn’t a date, but it was something—a step.
The ache hadn’t disappeared. It had simply dulled, like an old scar. Some days it stung. But it no longer defined her.
On the windowsill, a single pot of violets bloomed. The only thing she’d taken from the old house. Natalia had once given them to her.
“They’re strong,” she had said. “Like us.”
Vera touched the petals gently.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Strong. And growing in separate pots now.”
Outside, rain began to fall—soft and steady. Washing away what had been.
Inside, a woman stood tall. Not broken. Just beginning again.
And this time, the story was hers alone.