Elena agreed. She went outside; it was already getting dark. Winter, December, short days. Grigory Petrovich walked her to the bus stop.
“You hang in there,” he said as they parted. “I know it’s tough right now. But you did the right thing. You can’t let things like this slide.”
“Thank you,” Elena shook his hand. “If it weren’t for you…”
“Don’t mention it, it’s my job,” he waved his hand. “But you should thank that old woman who warned you about the snow. It’s a miracle, really.”
Elena got on the bus and leaned her forehead against the cold glass. The old woman… how did she know? From where? She remembered her eyes, piercing, seeing right through her. Her dry fingers on her sleeve. Her words: “when your husband leaves, don’t touch the snow.”
If Elena had cleared the snow in the evening as Victor had ordered, the tracks wouldn’t have been visible. She would have never known someone had come. And in the morning, new snow would have fallen, covering everything. And she would have gone on living, unaware that her house was being sold out from under her. And in two days, Victor would have come or called, telling her the house was sold. Or maybe he wouldn’t have said anything at all, just disappeared with the money. And what could she have done? Proving anything would have been nearly impossible if the deal had already gone through.
At home, Elena undressed, went to the kitchen, and sat by the window. She looked at the yard, at the tracks that were now slightly covered by new snow. She should have eaten something, but she had no appetite. She felt sick from the thoughts, from the betrayal, from how easily Victor had decided to deceive her. 32 years. She cooked for him, did his laundry, waited for him from his trips. She had been sick—he was by her side, but so coldly, distantly. She had thought it was just his character, that work had exhausted him. But he was just waiting for the moment to get rid of her. To sell the house, take the money, start a new life. Maybe he already had someone else. A different woman, young, beautiful. And he dreamed of running away to her, and his wife was in the way.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Elena didn’t hold them back; she sat and cried, staring into the darkness outside the window. She wasn’t crying for her husband, but for herself. For the lost years. For the fact that her life had been spent with a man who turned out to be a stranger. For the fact that at 58, she was left alone, with a broken heart and a memory of betrayal.
The phone rang. The screen displayed “Victor.” Elena stared at the call for a long time, then rejected it. A minute later, a message arrived: “How are things? Arrived safely. Talk tomorrow.” Dry, brief, as always. She didn’t reply.
The night was sleepless. Elena lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything that had happened between them. Searching for the moment when it all broke. Or was it broken from the start? Maybe he never loved her? Married for convenience, needed a house, a housekeeper. And now he decided that was enough, time to take what he could and leave?
In the morning, she got up exhausted, with swollen eyes. She looked in the mirror—a stranger’s face. Gray strands in her hair, wrinkles, fatigue. She had gotten old. Unattractive. Maybe that’s why he decided to get rid of her?
No. Enough. Elena straightened up, looking at her reflection. Enough feeling sorry for herself and making excuses for him. He was a criminal. He wanted to rob her, leave her on the street. And she would not let him do it.
She got dressed and went down to the kitchen. She made breakfast, forced herself to eat. Then she took out her phone and called the lawyer Victor had once hired to handle some documents. She explained the situation, asked for help with the divorce.
“Come in tomorrow, we’ll get everything sorted,” the lawyer said. “And you’re right to do it immediately. Such things cannot be forgiven.”
Elena hung up. Divorce. A strange word. She never thought she would say it. It always seemed that she and Victor would be together until the end, like his parents, like her parents. For life. But it turned out to be just until he got tired of it.
Two days later, Grigory Petrovich called.
“Elena Alexeevna, your husband is back. We detained him this morning when he arrived at work. He’s being questioned now. Do you want to be present?”
“No,” she answered firmly. “I don’t want to see him.”
“I understand. Then I’ll tell you the main thing: he confessed to everything. Says he got into debt, slot machines. Lost a large sum, creditors were threatening him. Decided to sell the house, thought you wouldn’t find out until it was too late.”
“And now what?”
“The case is being sent to court. Given his confession and the fact that the deal didn’t go through, he’ll likely get a suspended sentence or a short real one. Plus compensation to you for moral damages.”
“Alright. Thank you…”
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