Yulia pulled her jacket over a casual home T-shirt and slung her bag over her shoulder. While riding in the taxi, she gazed out the window, clutching a package of Voronezh marshmallows — Sergei’s favorite, wrapped in pink. Her heart longed to simply come in, embrace him, and surprise him. Since the hearing was postponed, they had two days to spend together.
The elevator climbed slowly, as it always did. Ascending to her floor, her heartbeat quickened beyond the usual pace. Checking the clock, it was ten minutes before eight. She made it before dinner, before the evening bustle. Opening the door now, he would surely be taken aback.
Sergei did not immediately open; the door cracked open just enough for him to peek sideways. His face paled momentarily, blank before he swiftly composed himself.
“Why are you here so early?” he asked, his voice shaking. “You told me you’d come in two days.”
Yulia nodded toward her bag. “The hearing got postponed. I thought I’d surprise you.”
From the kitchen came a woman’s laughter — Nastya was chatting on the phone. Moments later, she appeared in the doorway — a neighbor from the twenty-second floor. Yulia knew her name, knew she worked at the pharmacy across the street. They greeted each other with nods.
“Hi, Yulia!” Nastya held a plate with a half-eaten cake. “I just stopped by for a minute,” she said, placing the plate on the table. “Sergei helped me with the faucet, so I wanted to thank him.”
Yulia set her bag against the wall.
“I don’t recall you ever visiting us,” she said sharply.
Sergei stepped closer, attempting a smile. “We just came by for a few minutes. Why are you jumping to conclusions? It’s nothing.”
“Uh-huh,” Yulia nodded. “I’m going to shower.”
Later that night, when Nastya left and tense silence filled the apartment, Yulia sat on the couch, removing her hair tie and resting against the backrest. Sergei was flicking on his phone, avoiding eye contact.
“Was the cake tasty?” Yulia asked, glancing at him.
“Just ordinary. Nothing special,” he answered without looking away from the screen.
The next morning she woke early and quietly began unpacking and tidying. In the nightstand drawer, she found long-expired appliance warranties and old receipts. One slipped under the bed—a thin white slip emblazoned with the logo of the restaurant on Teatralnaya Street. The total was over three thousand rubles, dated three days prior.
She laid the receipt on the kitchen table just as Sergei entered, stretching in shorts and a tank top.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your bill. From the restaurant. The amount matches exactly. I don’t dine out — can’t afford it,” she said briskly.
He grabbed the slip, frowning. “So now you’re a detective? Checking up on me? Not trusting me? That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, tossing the receipt back down. “Oleg invited me over. He and his wife were having problems. We drank and talked. You know how he always comes for advice.”
Yulia offered no reply, turning instead to stare out the window.
During the weekend, they drove to visit their son Artem at camp. The sultry weather and empty roads set the mood. The camp buzzed with children’s voices. Artem ran to meet them, hugging them both before tugging Yulia’s hand. “Come, I’ll show you where we draw!” she followed, signaling Sergei to wait behind.
In the arts room, long tables hosted kids drawing and cutting colored paper.
Artem pulled Yulia to his spot, showing her a page with little people and a house: “This is you and Dad. Over there is Arseniy — he’s in the next group. We became friends.”
Then came lunch. Sitting at a separate table, Artem chatted about morning exercises, campfires, and the counselor playing guitar. Yulia laughed and ate without paying much attention. Sergei, sitting to the side, nodded occasionally but mostly stayed silent. Later, he stood to get juice and stopped by a counselor in a red T-shirt, speaking softly. She smiled, and he helped carry a box—his hand briefly touching hers. The counselor’s eyes sparkled.
Yulia wiped her hands with a napkin on the bench, observing. Artem finished his pilaf unaware of the undercurrents. These small moments felt trivial, yet were far from insignificant.
On the drive back, Yulia looked out the window before finally commenting, “You’re awfully polite today.”
“Here we go again. You’re misunderstanding everything,” he grumbled. “Don’t start.”
“It seemed like flirting to me.”
He slapped the steering wheel. “Stop nitpicking. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
That evening she called Marina.
“Hi. Can I come over for a couple of hours? I need to vent.”
Marina lived in an old house with a balcony scented by baked apples and dried chamomile. They spent hours drinking tea, chatting about school, camp, and town. Yulia recounted everything — about Nastya, the receipt, and the counselor — starting calm but ending flustered. Marina listened quietly, interrupting little.
“Listen, my friend works as a waitress there. I could find out more. That restaurant by the square you mentioned,” Marina suggested when Yulia fell silent, staring into her cup.
“I’d appreciate it,” Yulia responded, holding her cup protectively.
The next day dragged on, until a call came around noon.
Marina’s voice was cautious: “She was on shift. Says your guy came with a girl—dark hair, blue sundress. Sounds like Nastya.”
Yulia was silent before softly saying, “Thanks. I’ll call you back.”
That evening, placing a bottle of wine on the table, she poured herself a glass and sat down. Sergei stepped out of the bathroom wearing a robe, hair wet, cheeks flushed. He glanced briefly at the table.
“Nastya was there. At the restaurant. With you. You paid. Coincidence?” she challenged.
He froze, then collapsed onto the chair’s edge: “I didn’t want to tell you. I was afraid you’d misunderstand. It’s just… she had a rough day. We talked. Nothing else.”
Yulia stood. “Do you take me for a fool? You cheated the moment you chose silence. Tomorrow you move out. One day counted.”
He jumped up. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong! Wait!”
“Enough excuses. I’m done with you.”
“Why must I leave?”
“Because this apartment is mine.”
He sighed loudly, turned toward the door. “I did all the renovations myself! Half with my own hands! We have a son, calm down!”
Already heading to the bedroom, Yulia said, “I won’t tolerate betrayal. You know that.”
Immediately after the confrontation, she packed a bag and called a taxi. The decision was simple — to retreat to her mother’s place, where it was quiet.
The next morning, Yulia awoke in her childhood room — the wallpaper faded stars, a shelf lined with her schoolbooks. In the kitchen, Valentina Pavlovna, her mother, bustled about in a worn, floral robe.
“Good morning,” Yulia greeted as she entered.
“Sit down,” her mother replied without turning. “I made porridge. Eat it while it’s warm.”
Yulia poured tea, placing the cup on the table untouched.
“This isn’t just a visit, is it?” her mother probed.
Yulia nodded slowly. “Sergei and I have separated.”
Her mother sat across from her, leaning on the table.
“What happened between you?” she asked.
Yulia began recounting — Nastya, the receipt, the camp — her voice steady though each word landed with finality. Her mother listened silently, shaking her head.
“I would still reconsider. You have a child. This isn’t trivial.”
“I considered. He’s just no longer part of it.”
After breakfast, they packed laundry and went to the market for tomatoes and greens. Walking back with bags, their silence lingered. At the doorstep, her mother suddenly asked, “Has he called?”
“He has. I don’t answer.”
“And if he comes?”
Yulia shrugged. “Let him come. The door’s closed.”
That evening, as Yulia tidied the porch, her mother came out with a mug, standing quietly. Then she said, “Your father… we had this too. I never told you before. I forgave him. We lived together for 17 years after. Not perfect, but we lived.”
Yulia said nothing, stepping out into the yard beneath the cherry tree. Her feet touched the damp grass, palms resting on her knees. Silence drowned everything. The house behind her breathed with light.
Late that night, her phone buzzed. Sergei.
“I understand everything now. I’m at fault. Please, give me a chance,” his voice was low, almost childlike.
“You had your chance. You were right in the middle of it. Now you don’t.”
“What about Artem? Have you thought about him at all?”
Yulia hesitated, then replied, “Did you consider him when you started all this?”
He said nothing in response, just hung up.
The following day, Yulia returned to the apartment. In the hallway rested a bouquet of white lilies and blue irises. A note read: “Forgive me, if you can. I never meant it.”
She passed by silently, placing the flowers in a vase and filling it with water.
The days following crawled slowly. Sergei called and texted frequently but briefly. He visited once; she did not answer the door. After, silence returned.
One week later, Yulia picked up Artem from camp. He came in with a backpack, cap, and a suntanned face. Tossing his boots near the door, he moved to the kitchen.
“Mom, where’s Dad?”
She stood at the sink, drying her hands on a towel, then turned.
“He did something unforgivable. But he’s still your dad. That remains.”
Artem was quiet, sitting on a stool.
“What happens now?”
“Now it’s just you and me. But honestly.”
He nodded, then stood to hug her waist.
“Don’t be upset. I’m here for you now.”
Late that night, Yulia switched on the kitchen light. The table was bare except for a single glass. Pouring water, she stood by the window. The city slept, as did her heart — quietly and irrevocably.
Next morning she slipped off her ring, placing it in a drawer with Artem’s drawings. She cleaned the kitchen table, brewed coffee, and sat down at her laptop. A new path. A fresh start. Without explanations. Without returns.
On a Saturday morning, Yulia opened the door to find Sergei’s mother, Irina Viktorovna, standing with a bag of jam and a box of pies.
“I just want to talk,” she said immediately. “No accusations.”
Yulia stepped aside and let her in.
In the kitchen, Irina Viktorovna sat down, unpacked napkins, and spread the pastries.
“You both went mad. I’m not defending my son, but you’re not strangers.”
“I’m not going back to the past. I’m just living,” Yulia said calmly.
“Artem is little. He should have… a family. You’re throwing it all away like yesterday’s paper.”
“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m just being honest.”
Irina bit her lip and stood.
“I’ll tell him to back off. But if you decide to call — just dial. You’re not alone in this, you understand?”
After she left, Yulia immediately washed the cups and put away the food, as if erasing the visit’s trace.
A few days later Marina stopped by with a cake, settling on the windowsill.
“Do you still miss him?”
“Not really. Just the habit. And the silence,” Yulia stirred her tea. “Silence is the best thing so far.”
“Maybe that’s your honesty,” Marina said.
After school, Artem did homework in the kitchen, occasionally glancing at Yulia’s laptop.
“Do you always have such heavy stuff to handle?”
“Sometimes worse. But we manage.”
He nodded, drawing a stick figure carrying a briefcase in his notebook.
Late that evening, Yulia found an old box on the shelf under photos and certificates containing a thin note she had forgotten — a letter to herself at twenty: “Never be afraid to leave those who don’t listen.”
She read it, folded it again, and placed it beside the spare apartment key — to stay there, since it was no longer needed.
In the morning, stepping onto the balcony with coffee, the air fresh and smelling of rain and greenery, she heard Artem calling a friend for a bike ride below.
Returning indoors, she opened a window, feeling the cool air easing her breath. And for the first time in months, a gentle smile touched her lips — not for memories nor hopes but simply for herself. Because this morning belonged entirely to her. Forever.
Key Insight: This heartfelt story unfolds the painful yet empowering journey of a woman reclaiming her life amid betrayal, choosing honesty, and embracing a new beginning for herself and her child.