Polina tossed aside the duvet, flipped her damp pillow to the cooler side, and lay back down. The slight relief from the heat did nothing to help her sleep. The occasional tyre noise from passing cars outside grated on her nerves—but it was her thoughts that truly kept her awake. *Where’s that late-night driver rushing to? Home? Or is he fleeing something—or someone—into the dark? Who’s waiting for him? Bloody heat…*
With a sigh, she got up. She knew the flat well enough to navigate without switching on the lights. In the kitchen, she leaned against the window. Across the street, two windows glowed. *Someone waiting—or mourning?*
Young leaves rustled, obscuring any movement in those distant rooms. Polina flicked on the nightlight, poured water from the kettle into a glass, then turned it off again. One of the lit windows had gone dark. She sipped slowly, the coolness seeping into her body. The linoleum chilled her bare feet.
She left the empty glass on the sill and returned to the bedroom—but the crumpled, sweat-damp sheets repelled her. Instead, she moved to the spare room and lay on the stiff, narrow sofa, resting her head on a lumpy cushion packed with God-knows-what.
And then, unexpectedly, sleep took her.
***
*”Bitter! Bitter!”* the wedding guests chimed, raising their champagne flutes.
Ethan stood, clasping Polina’s hand to pull her up. In her heels, they were nearly eye to eye—no more craning her neck to look up at him. His gaze brimmed with adoration, desire. She tilted her head just so, letting her veil shield their kiss from the rowdy crowd.
*”One, two, three…”* the tipsy guests counted.
Her mother had taught her that a woman shaped a marriage—that keeping house and supporting her husband was her sacred duty. So Polina threw herself into building their happiness.
At first, she and Ethan did everything together: grocery runs, even cooking side by side, laughing and stealing kisses—until one distracted evening when the potatoes nearly burned. They were in love. It felt eternal, as if they’d stay young and happy forever.
Two years later, Polina gave birth to their daughter, Sophie. Her mother helped at first.
*”I’m exhausted,”* Polina complained about Ethan’s absence.
*”A husband works hard. A woman’s lot is to care for home and child,”* her mother chided. *”Nap when Sophie does. If he’s sleep-deprived, how will he provide?”*
Polina learned to snatch moments of rest, even nodding off on park benches during pram walks. When Sophie turned two, Polina returned to work, enrolling her in nursery.
*”Once I retire in five years, we’ll take Sophie, and you two can have another,”* her mother mused.
But re-entering the workforce killed any desire for more children. Ethan didn’t push either. The subject died there.
*”Why do men stray? Because mistresses stay polished, while wives grow sloppy at home,”* her mother warned.
So Polina made sure Ethan always saw her made up and put together—rising early to primp before he woke.
It didn’t save their marriage. Sophie grew up, left the nest, and Polina noticed Ethan swapping suits for joggers and hoodies. He took up running, though he’d always been fit.
*”It’s the trend,”* he’d say. *”Gotta keep up.”*
When she found lipstick on his collar, she confronted him. Caught off guard, he stammered before confessing—then asked for freedom.
*”Who’s stopping you? Go. Just know there’s no coming back.”*
She packed his things dry-eyed. He lingered in the hallway, stealing glances, waiting for her to crumble.
Polina stood arms crossed. *Not a chance.*
After he left, she collapsed on the sofa, buried her face in that same lumpy cushion, and howled like a wounded animal. Life felt meaningless. She wept all night. By dawn, she resolved to swallow a fistful of pills—even fetched the bottle. But first, she called her best friend to say goodbye.
Her friend sensed disaster and rushed over.
*”Don’t you dare. Imagine the ego boost he’d get if you died for him—proof he’s worth women losing their minds. Spare him that glory.”*
Polina didn’t take the pills. Slowly, she rebuilt. Solitude had perks: lazy mornings, padding around barefaced, no elaborate meals. She ate less, slimmed down, even looked younger. Savings from groceries funded new clothes—retail therapy being a woman’s best cure.
Then Sophie had a baby, giving Polina fresh purpose. She adored being a grandmother—singing lullabies, reading stories, shaping sandcastles together.
She fantasised about Ethan glimpsing her now, realising what he’d lost. Did his young wife make porridge or just toast? Or—worse—did *he* bring *her* coffee in bed? Her mind tormented her with images of him in a floral apron, grocery bags in hand.
The pain flared anew. *He’s happy without me.*
One afternoon at the playground, a silver-haired man settled beside her on the bench.
*”Glorious weather for April! Your grandson? Handsome lad. That’s my Katie in the sandpit—proper little angel, isn’t she?”*
He didn’t need replies, just an audience.
*”When my kids were young, my wife never let me near them—worried I’d bungle nappies or feeds. Frankly, I was relieved. Missed their first steps, first words… whole childhoods passed me by.”* He sighed. *”But with Katie? I’m making up for lost time. Know her better than her parents do. If I could go back…”* A pause. *”My Lizzy never complained. Gone now. Widower.”*
Polina thought of Ethan. *What if he’s got a new child too? Playing house, changing nappies, while Sophie got scraps?*
Resentment spiked. She scooped up Danny and left mid-tantrum.
They crossed paths again the next day. This time, Polina bragged about Danny’s milestones relentlessly.
Later, the man confessed his loneliness. *”Wife’s gone, kids are busy. Katie’ll grow up, and I’m not done living yet.”* His gaze lingered.
Polina considered it. He seemed decent—no obvious vices. She wasn’t old either. But the thought repelled her. *A stranger with baggage? No.* After that, she avoided that playground.
***
Morning brought a throbbing headache. Polina was brewing tea when the doorbell rang.
*”Sophie’s early today,”* she murmured, padding to the door.
Ethan stood there. She barely recognised him. Gone was the polished, youthful charm. Deep wrinkles creased his face; his hair had thinned. A jacket hung off gaunt shoulders like a coat hanger. His eyes held the look of a beaten dog.
*”Polly… Thought I’d stop by.”* He shrank under her stare.
No luggage. *Scouting the terrain,* she thought bitterly. *”What do you want?”*
As he shuffled inside, she spotted grime on his collar. Pity flickShe closed the door behind them, realising at last that happiness isn’t found in the past or someone else’s arms, but in the quiet moments spent building sandcastles with a child who adores you.
