Ludmila stood in the hallway in front of the mirror, gently adjusting her scarf. Just yesterday, she had been that young wife who made breakfast and kissed her husband goodbye at the door. Now she was a grandmother, with wrinkles around her eyes and gray strands at her temples.

— Enough admiring myself, she murmured, grabbing her handbag.

It was granddaughter Arisha’s seventh birthday. And yet, Pavel and she still hadn’t picked out a proper gift. He had promised yesterday: “Tomorrow we’ll go together, Ludmila.” But this morning, he called: “Work emergency, sorry—figure it out yourself.”

Always alone, she thought.

But today felt different. She decided to surprise him—stop by his office and pull him aside briefly to choose something beautiful for Arisha, like they used to do—spontaneously, with a smile.

In the office, the familiar scent of coffee and copy machines greeted her. The secretary, Katia, looked up:

— Ludmila Sergeyevna! Pavel Ivanovich is here, but busy.

— That’s fine, I’ll wait. Or better—I’ll slip in quietly and surprise him.

Katia hesitated and nodded. Ludmila approached the door to his office and gently cracked it open.

And froze.

— Ludmila doesn’t know anything, whispered her husband, concerned, almost trembling. — Be patient, Len, soon everything will be different.

A young, clear female laugh.

— Pavel, how much longer? I’m tired of hiding!

The floor seemed to give way beneath her feet. Her heart pounded in her throat; her hands went numb. She clung to the doorknob, unable to move.

— You must understand, dear… Twenty-eight years of marriage don’t disappear just like that. But with you, I feel like a real man, not an old grandpa.

— And I have to be your secret for life?

The young woman’s voice grew sulky, wounded.

Ludmila backed away slowly, her legs trembling, her head buzzing. She slumped into a chair in the waiting room.

— Ludmila Sergeyevna, are you alright? asked Katia anxiously.

— No, I’m fine. Tell Pavel Ivanovich that I have urgent errands. He’ll understand.

She left without looking back.

Outside, an ordinary October day: people bustling along, pale sunlight. Yet in her world, something had shattered definitively.

On the bus, she stared out the window. The city blurred past as familiar streets, shops, the park where she’d walked with grandchildren—everything the same, yet her world overturned.

“Ludmila doesn’t know anything” rang in her mind like a broken record. She wasn’t Ludmila anymore, but “Ludmila”—a nuisance to hide.

At home, she began preparing dinner automatically—peeling, chopping, stirring. Inside, everything was burning.

— Mom, you’re so pale, asked her daughter Oksana.

— Just tired, Ludmila lied without looking up.

— Where’s Dad? He promised to help with Arisha’s gift.

She nearly dropped her ladle. The gift—the reason she went to see him.

— He had something come up, she whispered.

Oksana shrugged and left. Ludmila stayed alone with her thoughts: she had always thought of family, of children, of making everyone happy. But herself? When had she last thought of herself?

That evening, Pavel returned. He kissed her absentmindedly and settled in front of the TV.

— How are you, dear? he asked.

“Dear.” He had called another woman that this morning.

— Good. Dinner’s ready.

He talked about work, complaints, clients. She nodded, smiled in the appropriate moments, poured soup—as always. Except now every word stabbed her heart.

The next day, Ludmila called Oksana.

— Can I come over? We need to talk.

— Mom, yesterday you weren’t yourself.

— Honey, what if… if you find out Dad is cheating—what do you do?

Oksana paled.

— Mom, are you sure? Could it be work? Something professional?

— “With you, I feel alive”—is that professional business? Ludmila smiled bitterly.

Silence, then:

— Maybe talk to him? Clear things up? Men make mistakes—it could be a midlife crisis…

— You want me to forgive?

— What else is there to do? Divorce at fifty-two? Think of the family.

Ludmila stared at her daughter, unrecognizable.

— I’ll think, she replied.

Late that night, drinking tea, she wondered: what is a family without truth? One person lives a double life, and the other must endure it for the “good” of everyone?

Then something clicked—a concrete decision.

The next morning, she woke with clarity.

Pavel rushed around, searching for his tie.

— Ludmila, you didn’t make coffee?

— Make it yourself.

He stopped, surprised.

She gathered her papers and wrote a leave request.

That evening he returned. She was waiting, composed.

— Pavel, we need to talk.

He sensed the change.

— Yesterday, I came to your office—for a surprise. I heard your conversation.

He went pale.

— Don’t lie. I heard everything. “Ludmila doesn’t know anything,” “with you I feel alive.”

He fell silent.

— What hurts isn’t the mistress—it’s that to you I’m just an inconvenience, as if those twenty‑eight years never existed.

— Ludmila, I’ll fix everything.

— No. You made your choice. And I’m making mine.

She smiled gently.

— I’m leaving. Tomorrow I’m going to Sochi. A new life begins.

He screamed, threatened. She didn’t hear him.

— Thank you, Pavel, for freeing me from illusions.

She grabbed her suitcase and walked away.

A year later, Ludmila—tanned, smiling—sat by the sea in Sochi. Younger and happier than ever.