Today, I will ask my wife for a divorce, my darling,” Gennady murmured. His voice was laced with the hollow confidence of a man desperately trying to convince himself as much as the woman sitting across the table. “Just do not fret. I want no arguments, no tears.”
Alla stared back, her expression clouded with a heavy, deeply rooted exhaustion. The café around them buzzed with the vibrant energy of the city, but their small corner felt suffocatingly tense.
“I am weary of this refrain, Gena. It is the exact same melody, played year after year,” she replied, her tone sharp. “You must make a choice. If Anastasia is to remain your wife, say it now. We will sever this tie, and that will be the end of it.”
“No, do not speak of endings,” he pleaded, reaching across the porcelain cups to grasp her hand. “I chose you long ago. Circumstances simply chained me to a life I no longer wish to lead.”
“I am not a naive schoolgirl to be pacified with empty promises,” Alla said, her voice trembling slightly as a fragile tear escaped her eye. “Regardless of my love for you, if you do not end it today, I will walk away.”
Gennady pulled her into a tight, desperate embrace. She was right. He could no longer inhabit the purgatory between two lives. It was time to shatter the glass.
The apartment was cloaked in its usual, comfortable quiet when Gennady returned. His mother-in-law had already retired for the night, and Anastasia was draped across the sofa. The soft glow of a Turkish melodrama illuminated her face, and a cup of steaming tea was cradled in her hands. It was a perfect tableau of domestic predictability.
“Good evening,” Anastasia greeted him, her voice even and unchanged. “Late again. A heavy workload?”
“Nastya, we must have a serious conversation.”
She paused, the teacup hovering in the air. “Must it be tonight?”
“Yes. Now.”
Gennady sat heavily beside the woman he had shared three decades of his life with. He looked at her familiar features, searching for the courage to drop the blade.
“Nastya, we have journeyed together for thirty years. We raised two extraordinary children who are now thriving abroad. We weathered storms, and we supported one another.”
Anastasia watched him with an unsettling, meticulous attention, studying the micro-expressions on his face.
“But,” he swallowed hard, “the feelings have evaporated. Only respect remains, and respect alone is too frail a foundation to sustain a marriage.”
“Is there another woman?” she asked. Her tone was unnervingly placid, as though she were inquiring about the weather forecast.
“Yes,” he confessed, deciding in that moment to strip away the lies. “For nearly two years. It is not a fleeting amusement or a game. We truly love one another.”
A heavy silence descended upon the room. Gennady braced for the inevitable storm—the tears, the screaming, the shattering of porcelain. Instead, Anastasia looked at him with profound sorrow.
“Very well. We will divorce. One cannot legislate love, Gena. I cannot say I expected this, and every word you speak carves into me like a knife, but I will not hold you captive.”
“Nastya, I—”
“You acted on your desires, and now you are fleeing. It is a tragically ordinary tale,” she interrupted smoothly. “I will sign the papers. I will make no exorbitant demands. But I have one condition.”
Gennady blinked, genuinely surprised. “Name it.”
“My mother turns seventy in two and a half months. It is a milestone she deserves to celebrate without the shadow of our ruined marriage. We will file the papers after her anniversary.”
“Agreed,” he nodded immediately. “I respect your mother deeply. That is not an issue.”
“There is more,” Anastasia continued, her eyes locking onto his. “You will not merely co-exist with me. You will help me craft a flawless illusion. For the next ten weeks, you will be the devoted husband. You will bring me flowers. We will share breakfasts. We will laugh cheerfully in the evenings. Let her bask in the warmth of a perfect family before the winter comes.”
It was a bizarre request, yet given her remarkable, stoic grace, Gennady felt he owed her this theater. “Two and a half months,” he agreed.
The next day, Gennady met Alla for lunch, expecting a triumphant celebration. “I asked for the divorce. She agreed, but we must wait until after her mother’s anniversary in ten weeks.”
Alla’s satisfied smile vanished instantly, replaced by a storm of bitter indignation. “What absolute nonsense! Am I to wait in the shadows while you play house?”
“It is a simple concession for an elderly woman, Alla. Do not shout.”
“If you choose to play the devoted husband, you will do so without me,” Alla hissed, standing up abruptly. “We will not speak or see each other for these two and a half months. Your days of chasing two rabbits are finished.”
She walked out. Surprisingly, Gennady did not chase after her. The ultimatum felt less like a heartbreak and more like a logistical relief.
True to his word, Gennady began his performance at home. He arrived early from work. He bought vibrant bouquets. He prepared elaborate breakfasts.
“I had nearly forgotten how exceptional your morning toasts are, my dear son-in-law,” the elderly woman beamed one Sunday. “You used to constantly dote on me, then you grew spoiled. I am glad to see you returning to your senses.”
“We should go to the countryside,” Gennady suggested warmly. “Fresh forest air, a cabin, a campfire.”
Leaning close to his wife, he whispered defensively, “Do not think this changes anything. My decision stands.”
Anastasia merely smiled, a serene, untouchable expression on her pale face.
As the weeks bled into one another, Gennady noticed a profound shift within his own mind. The silence from Alla did not torment him; it liberated him. He felt an astonishing lightness. The domestic performance was slowly, imperceptibly ceasing to be an act.
One evening, as he asked her to store the leftover soup, Anastasia swayed violently. Her face was ashen. Before she could finish her sentence, she collapsed onto the kitchen tiles.
“Nastya!” Gennady dropped to his knees, true panic gripping his throat. He gently patted her cheeks until her eyes fluttered open.
“I am fine. Just a sudden drop in blood pressure,” she whispered weakly.
“You are terrifyingly pale. We are going to the hospital right now.”
“No, please. Just help me to the sofa,” she deflected with a frail, unconvincing smile.
Gennady lifted her fragile frame—she felt horrifyingly light—and carried her to their room. That night, sleep evaded him entirely. His concern was no longer an obligation; it was a deep, gnawing terror for the woman he realized he still deeply cared for.
The highly anticipated anniversary arrived in a beautiful crescendo of joy. The house brimmed with flowers, laughter, and the warmth of their visiting grandchildren.
“The absolute best decision my Nastya ever made in her life was marrying you,” his mother-in-law declared, her eyes shining with genuine tears of happiness.
Gennady looked across the room at Anastasia. She was glowing, yet somehow translucent. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow: he did not want Alla. The affair had been a foolish, blind rebellion against the quiet comfort of his own life. He loved his wife. He loved the history etched into her smile.
Suddenly, Anastasia’s phone rang. After a brief, quiet conversation, she returned to the parlor. “I must go visit my friend Tasya. Please forgive my sudden departure.”
“Absolutely not,” Gennady argued, stepping forward, his heart heavy with anxiety. “Tomorrow, I am taking you for a full medical examination. You have been fainting continuously. Only after we ensure you are healthy will I let you go anywhere.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she agreed softly, slipping out the door.
She did not return that night. The following morning, her mother casually mentioned that Nastya was still with Tasya. Gennady paced the floor, his chest painfully tight with an inexplicable, mounting dread. She called briefly that evening.
“Do not worry, Gena. Everything is fine. Just know that I love you all. You have always been the most precious part of my life.”
The terrifying finality in her voice shattered his composure. He spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding a frantic, relentless rhythm.
The next day, around noon, the sharp ring of the home telephone shattered the stillness of the house.
Gennady answered, his hand trembling uncontrollably.
“Gennady Sinitsyn?” a clinical, unfamiliar voice asked. “This is the Third Regional Hospital. Your wife, Anastasia, underwent a scheduled operation this morning to remove a malignant brain tumor. I am so sorry. We were unable to save her. Please accept our deepest condolences.”
The receiver slipped from his grasp, hitting the wooden floor with a hollow, echoing clatter. The perfect illusion had successfully concluded, leaving behind a devastating reality he would now have to survive entirely alone.