“Darling, maybe we should head to the dacha this weekend?” I suggested, hoping for a positive answer.
“Can’t, sweetheart,” he replied without even looking up from his laptop. “You know how much work I have.”
So I went alone. I boarded the train and settled by the window.
I don’t like going to the dacha by myself—there’s always so much to do, more than I can handle. But what choice did I have?
The train started moving, and I stared out the window, trying not to think about how I’d manage alone.
And then… He walked into my car. My husband. Georgy. Next to him—a young woman.
My heart pounded as if trying to break free from my chest.
The favorite jacket I’d picked out with such care suddenly felt unbearably tight, squeezing me like a vise.
He didn’t see me. Or pretended not to.
She… The girl… Held his hand, chattering away, laughing.
Her voice sounded so light, as if her life had no worries, no troubles.
Where were they going? Why wasn’t he at work? Questions swarmed in my head like wasps, making it impossible to focus.
Should I get off? Hide? Or walk up and demand: “What is this?”
I froze, as if turned to stone. It felt like the entire train car was watching me, seeing my turmoil, my pain.
But no one was looking. Everyone was busy with their own lives.
They sat a few meters away, their backs to me.
I saw her rest her head on his shoulder, saw him smile at her—the smile that used to be only mine.
The tenderness in his eyes, the softness in his movements—all of it was for her. Not me.
How could he? Why wasn’t he afraid to take this route?
Oh, right… I hadn’t told him I was going to the dacha. Usually, when he’s working, I stay in the city.
I stood up and moved to another car. It was stuffy, smelling of dust and something stale.
I stared out the window, trying to figure out how to go on living.
Fields, forests, houses—everything blurred past as if in a fog.
The dacha can wait, I decided. Now, I needed to know where they were headed.
They got off at Sosnovaya station. She linked her arm with his, and they walked down a path leading into the woods.
I followed, keeping my distance.
My heart raced wildly, anger and hurt mixing with a cold, sticky fear.
The path led to a small house with blue shutters.
Georgy took out a key, unlocked the door, and they disappeared inside.
I stood behind a tree, unsure what to do. Call out to him? Walk away?
In the end, I turned back. I needed to be alone. To think. Otherwise, I might do something I’d regret.
My steps were heavy, as if I were carrying an unbearable weight.
The platform was nearly empty. I sat on a bench, the cold metal seeping into my body.
I closed my eyes, trying to shut out reality.
Breathe in, breathe out. Calm down. Pull yourself together.
I didn’t want to go home. Everything there reminded me of him, of our life.
Of the life that turned out to be a lie. I needed time.
Time to figure out what to do next.
And then… Then I’d make a decision. But not today.
Today, I just had to survive.
“I’ll go to Dina’s,” I whispered to myself.
She lived nearby, on the same train line.
I called her, my voice trembling as I said I’d be there in an hour.
Dina understood immediately and didn’t ask questions.
“Come, I’ll be waiting,” was all she said.
On the train, I stared out the window again. Trees, houses, people—all living their lives.
While mine had come to a halt. Shattered into a thousand pieces.
I wasn’t ready to pick them up. Maybe I never would be.
Dina’s home smelled of cinnamon and fresh pastries.
She hugged me without a word.
And that was exactly what I needed.
Just warmth. Just silence.
Tea with sweet buns was my salvation. Dina sat beside me, stroking my hand.
And as I looked out the window, for the first time that day, I thought the sun might eventually come out.
Someday.
“Where were you?” Georgy snapped the moment I stepped through the door. “Do you have any idea how many morgues I called?”
I didn’t return home until Sunday evening. Dina—my guardian angel, even without a psychology degree—had practically pumped me full of advice, support, and the certainty that I could survive even a divorce.
It was she who convinced me not to delay the confrontation. “His reaction will tell you everything,” she’d said. “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”
But I disagreed. Even if it was just a fling, did that change anything? Forgive and carry on as if nothing happened? No. That wasn’t for me.
“I was at Dina’s,” I answered calmly.
“Why was your phone off?” he pressed.
“I turned it off.”
“What happened?” His voice grew sharper.
“What happened?” I echoed. “I saw you with another woman on the train. You got off at Sosnovaya and went to that little blue house in the woods.”
Georgy sat down as if he’d been knocked off his feet.
“You followed me?” he asked, his voice caught between surprise and irritation.
“Yes.”
The silence stretched. He said nothing, and I waited, feeling everything inside me tighten.
“Fine,” he finally said, glancing at his watch. “Let’s go!”
“Where?” I asked, confused.
“There. To the blue house. Rita makes amazing raspberry jam—she wanted to give me some, but I refused. I thought you didn’t know. Let’s go get it! We’ll be back before dark.”
At first, I refused outright.
Then Georgy started explaining, and I didn’t believe him.
But to settle things once and for all, we went to Sosnovaya station.
Turns out, Rita was his sister. From his father’s second marriage.
Georgy’s mother had always been against him seeing his father, so he did it in secret.
But that meant he hadn’t trusted me either—he’d never told me.
I knew he sometimes called his father, but I had no idea about a sister.
Rita’s husband was sick, and Georgy helped them. Sometimes he went to Sosnovaya, sometimes they met in the city and went together…
Sosnovaya. The name now grated on my ears like a knife.
So behind every “I’m at work” were meetings with his sister and her sick husband? Behind every sigh about “money’s tight” was help for people he’d never mentioned?
Rita needed his help because her husband was wheelchair-bound.
But what about me? Didn’t I need his support too?
The jealousy faded, but the hurt remained.
Deep, sticky, all-consuming.
He’d built our life on lies.
Why had he assumed I wouldn’t understand if he told me the truth?
The resentment choked me. Resentment toward his mother, who’d forbidden him from seeing his father.
Resentment toward his father, who must have been far from perfect if his mother reacted so harshly.
But most of all, I was furious with Georgy.
He was my husband, my rock.
And that rock had turned out to be shaky, unreliable.
Now I needed time. Time to process all of this.
Divorcing over a hidden sister would be ridiculous.
But I could never go back to living as before, with complete trust.
