Oleg walked into the apartment, not even bothering to wipe his shoes on the doormat I had bought last month.
Dirty gray stains immediately spread across the light, lacquered parquet, like ink blots in the notebook of a hopeless failing student.
I was sitting in my grandfather’s old armchair, which my husband contemptuously called a “dust collector from the last century.”
— There you are again in that junk — he grimaced without looking at me and tossed his keys onto the glass table.
The metal struck the surface with a sharp sound, as if someone had deliberately dragged a nail across a chalkboard.
At that moment, I realized it was time to tear down the scenery of our family drama by the roots.
Silently, I handed him a folded sheet of paper, stamped with the boldly blue seal of a private clinic.
— What kind of bill is this? — Oleg asked reluctantly, skimming the lines with mild disgust.
His usually well-groomed face — frozen in a mask of constant busyness — suddenly twisted in a strange way.
— The doctor gave me a month to live, — I said, trying to keep my voice completely colorless.
Oleg froze. I could almost hear the gears of a cash register clicking in his head.
He didn’t rush to embrace me. He didn’t start looking for the best doctors. He didn’t even offer me a glass of water.
— A month? — he asked, and a strange, barely concealed note of satisfaction flickered in his voice.
— Thirty days, if we believe Professor Samoylov, — I replied.
He began unbuttoning his shirt quickly, as if it had suddenly become too tight.
— You know, Lena… I’ve always believed that in critical moments one must be completely honest…
Honesty — that was the last quality I expected from a man who had hidden a second SIM card for two years.
— I’ve had another life for six months now, — he said with relief. — A woman… her name is Sveta. She’s expecting a child.
I didn’t react. I let him perform his entire “noble” act.
— I don’t want to spend your last month in lies, — he continued with theatrical pathos. — That wouldn’t be fair to my new family.
— So you’re leaving right now? — I asked calmly.
— Yes. I’ll come back for the rest of my things later. I’ll just take my laptop now.
He was already moving toward the wardrobe. I could feel the space around him clearing of his heavy, suffocating presence.
He hastily threw his silk shirts into a bag. Before, I would have jumped up to help. Now I simply watched.
— Sveta is waiting downstairs, — he tossed over his shoulder. — We’ve been planning this for a while.
The door slammed. His footsteps faded away.
I walked to the window. His car was parked below. Beside it stood a short blonde woman in a bright pink coat, chattering cheerfully.
He left. Without a second thought.
I looked at the paper.
The stamp was real. The signature too.
Only the diagnosis was a lie.
I burst out laughing.
My laughter was clear, liberating. It filled the apartment, pushing out the stale scent of his expensive cologne.
I tore the paper apart. Then again. And again.
White confetti scattered across the table — my personal celebration.
It was the cheapest and most effective test of conscience ever conducted within these walls.
I flung the window open. Cold, fresh air rushed in.
His morning drink still sat in the cup, a неприятная dark film floating on top.
I poured it out. Washed the cup.
Everything.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to throw everything away. To start over.
In the mirror, I saw another woman.
With burning eyes. Free.
The next day, I called movers.
The “designer” furniture disappeared one piece at a time.
Light flooded into the apartment.
— Is this armchair going too? — one of them asked.
— No, — I smiled. — This stays. It’s the only real thing here.
That evening, I sat on the floor eating spicy Chinese food.
It was the best dinner of my life.
My phone was full of messages from Oleg.
I blocked him.
A week later, I cut my hair.
— Are you sure? — the hairdresser asked.
— Cut off everything that suffocates me.
My hair fell to the floor.
The weight disappeared.
A new woman looked back at me.
A month passed.
I was sitting in a café, drinking lemonade and reading a book.
The door burst open.
Oleg stood there.
Worn out. Broken.
— Lena? You… you’re alive?
— Yes, — I turned a page. — Surprising, isn’t it?
He sat down.
— Sveta… she threw me out…
— She figured out who you are faster than I did, — I said.
— Let’s start over…
I looked up at him.
Calmly.
Coldly.
— That month really was the last one.
He froze.
— The last month of my life that I spent with a coward and a traitor.
I stood up.
— The paper was fake. My feelings weren’t.
I walked out.
The wind played with my short hair.
The world was vast.
And finally, it was mine.
