I refuse to believe that Matvey is truly gone. It just doesn’t seem possible. He must have left in a fit of anger, upset over the chaos in the apartment—chaos that I caused. Yes, I shouldn’t have torn up his things, shouldn’t have gone so far. But he’ll calm down, he’ll come back. We’re a family. And now, we’re expecting a child. Divorce? That’s absurd.
To keep myself from spiraling into despair, I throw myself into cleaning. I won’t allow myself to dwell on the argument or the divorce papers. Matvey and I will make up, and unnecessary stress will only harm the baby.
I lose myself in the rhythm of household chores. I gather the shredded remnants of his clothes, sweep up the broken pieces from the floor, and fill several garbage bags. Then, I go online and order replacements—suits, ties, jeans, shirts—everything he might need. The courier will deliver them in a few days. He’ll come back, and everything will be as it was.
Time slips away, and before I know it, it’s past midnight. I decide to cook dinner—Matvey’s favorite: roasted meat and grilled vegetables. By the time the clock reads one-thirty, he still isn’t home. That’s fine. I won’t call him. Let him cool off. He’ll be back tomorrow.
But the next day, he doesn’t come. I push away the panic and continue waiting. To distract myself, I pull out our wedding album and flip through the photos. We were so happy, so in love. Our wedding was everything I had dreamed of, followed by a honeymoon in the tropics—two weeks of bliss, never apart. I had thought our happiness would last forever.
As night falls and he still isn’t home, the fear I’ve been suppressing starts creeping in. The idea of divorce—real, undeniable—sends chills down my spine. My mind refuses to accept it.
By Monday, I know I have to do something before I lose myself entirely. I cook another meal—borscht and his favorite salads. He’ll be working late, probably home by nine. I keep glancing at my phone, hoping for a message. Usually, he texts me during the day. But two days have passed in silence.
After turning off the stove, I force myself out of the apartment, heading to a beauty salon. I indulge in treatments, then go on a shopping spree. Anything to keep my mind from dwelling on Matvey’s absence. My phone remains empty—no calls, no messages.
Dread coils in my chest. I need company, a distraction. I call my friends and invite them for coffee. They’re all single, free in the evenings. I was the only one from our university group who married at twenty. My friends had chosen careers over relationships.
Polina, Rita, and Masha meet me at the café. They’re lively, full of stories. Polina got a promotion, Rita just returned from Argentina, and Masha bought an apartment.
“What about you, Yulia? Anything new?” Rita asks. “Don’t tell me you’re still playing the same devoted housewife.”
“I am,” I answer lightly.
They tease me sometimes, unable to understand why I devoted myself so fully to marriage. They think I wasted my education at Moscow State University just to be a homemaker. They don’t get it. They haven’t experienced real love. Masha’s relationship lasted six months before it crumbled. Rita has had flings, but none serious. And Polina—her expectations for men are so high, I doubt anyone could meet them.
I don’t tell them about my pregnancy. Or the looming divorce. I don’t want their pity, their sympathy. Besides, there’s still hope. Matvey wouldn’t leave me, not when I’m carrying his child.
“Alright, girls, I need to go home. It’s late.”
“It’s barely eleven!” Polina protests.
“It’s late for a married woman.”
“Oh, come on, does Matvey really need you to tuck him in?” Rita smirks.
“I hope so.”
They roll their eyes in unison.
“You dragged us out here and now you’re the first to leave,” Masha complains.
“Because I have a husband to go home to.”
“And we have work in the morning, but here we are, still sitting.”
I leave money for my coffee, thanking them for coming. As I step outside, I call a taxi. A gnawing fear grips me. What if I walk into an empty apartment again?
He must be back. He wouldn’t really stay in a hotel this long.
A terrible thought slithers into my mind. What if he’s not at a hotel? What if he’s with someone else? I shake it off. No. That’s impossible. Matvey isn’t a cheater. He told me so himself. And I believe him.
But as I enter the apartment, silence greets me once more. My hands tremble, and a lump rises in my throat. The truth, undeniable now, presses down on me.
Tears spill freely. I lean my forehead against the bedroom wall, sobbing softly. The realization sinks in, deep and painful. The loneliness is unbearable. It consumes me.
Matvey is gone.
Desperation grips me. I bang my head against the wall, as if the pain can chase away the reality. Then I collapse onto the floor, curling up, rocking back and forth. I will the front door to open, for Matvey to walk in. But the apartment remains still. Empty.
The silence mocks me.
Dragging myself to the computer, I log into the government services website. A notification flashes on the screen—Matvey Alekseevich Poletaev has officially filed for divorce. I need to confirm.
My whole body trembles. A cold sweat slides down my spine. My temples pound. My mind repeats the words over and over—Matvey is gone. Matvey is gone.
I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle the scream threatening to escape.
This is the end. The real end.
With shaking fingers, I confirm the divorce.
And just like that, something inside me shifts. The love I once felt turns to something else entirely.
Hatred.