My Path to a Second Marriage: Serenity at Home and Unexpected Revelations
I never aimed to remarry, especially after my first union turned out to be a five-year emotional storm, culminating in mutual frustration and separation. Yet, despite the rupture, we managed to keep a friendly connection, occasionally exchanging messages about work, weather, and mutual acquaintances.
With Anton, everything unfolded differently from the very start. There were no fluttering butterflies in my stomach, no dazzling fireworks, no blissful euphoria. Instead, a gradual sense of homey tranquility washed over me, much like returning from a lengthy journey. This modest man, with a broad chest, attentive gray eyes, and a gentle smile, simply entered my life and stayed.
That evening, my friends and I convened at a new restaurant on Marata Street. Running late after a meeting, I rushed inside, hastily crumpling my scarf, seeking familiar faces among the crowd. In the corner, Anton sat alone, reading a book with a glass of wine beside him.
“Probably some professor,” I thought briefly. Our eyes met; he nodded slightly before returning to his reading.
Finding my friends, I learned that Mashka had invited a new colleague. She smiled, mentioning he would join us soon — and indeed, he did. The ‘professor’ lowered his book but maintained his focused, observant gaze. Within five minutes, I discovered quite a bit about him: Anton Pavlovich, editor, divorced, and father to an eight-year-old daughter named Polina. However, he never mentioned his ex-wife, which immediately caught my attention.
Less than two months later, we were living together. During this period, I had just been promoted and was working almost non-stop. My mother grumbled, maintaining that career achievements wouldn’t bring happiness, urging me to think about having children. Yet, I was firm in my priorities: financial independence first, owning my apartment next, then a successful career, and only after these — other matters.
- By the time I turned 32, I owned a two-room apartment in a newly built complex.
- I held a managerial position at work.
- Anton was by my side.
I consciously entered this relationship understanding that he already had a child from his previous marriage and that I would need to share his time and attention.
I met Polina approximately a month after meeting Anton. She was a slender, blonde girl with the same attentive eyes as her father. She resembled a delicate porcelain figurine—fragile and cautious. Polina regarded me warily yet politely. My meeting with Anton’s ex-wife, however, occurred much later.
“Hello, Anton? It’s Svetlana,” a melodious voice rang on the phone. “I’ll be late today. Can you pick up Polina earlier? Tell her I’ll drop by later.”
I was nearby, preparing dinner. The phrase “I’ll drop by” sounded so casual, as though we were one family, rather than divorced partners sharing a new spouse.
When Svetlana arrived, I realized two things: first, she was impeccably beautiful — a tall blonde with perfect features as if she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Second, she didn’t even attempt to pretend I existed.
“Look what I’ve prepared for you,” she said, handing Anton a folder and kissing him on the cheek. “The documents for Polina need notarization, and I enrolled her in art classes. You don’t mind, do you?”
She addressed Anton as both a personal assistant and a close confidant, without ever glancing in my direction.
Anton’s behavior puzzled me: he neither flirted with his ex-wife nor introduced me or set clear boundaries. Instead, he merely nodded, agreed, and inquired about Polina’s school progress.
“Tonia, you know how much she misses you,” finally Svetlana looked in my direction, though more as if through me. “Polina needs extra time with her father.”
“This became one of many similar situations: Svetlana appeared unexpectedly, always perfectly put-together, imposing new demands on Anton.”
He never refused — neither financially, covering the courses and activities, nor with the time demanded to care for their daughter.
I stayed silent, understanding that a child is sacred. Yet inside, a growing sense of discomfort arose. It seemed Anton remained Svetlana’s husband, while I was merely an addition to the apartment.
Still, I grew fond of Polina. She was remarkably mature and thoughtful for her nine years. We baked cookies, watched cartoons, and discussed her drawings. She timidly sought advice on girlhood matters.
“Mom won’t let me paint my nails; she says I’m too young,” she confided quietly one day. “But I’m already nine.”
“We’ll make you a special child-friendly nail polish that washes off easily before going home,” I offered.
We carefully chose colors and decorated her nails with patterns. When Anton came home, Polina proudly showed him our creations.
“Beautiful,” he smiled, but his gaze tightened. “Just don’t tell your mom, okay?”
I sensed his fear of Svetlana’s reaction, although I couldn’t grasp the full reason.
I postponed meeting my mother-in-law, but after six months, Anton insisted on a family lunch. Nina Sergeyevna was a petite, full-figured woman with sharp eyes and a calm expression, much like her son.
Her piercing gaze followed us as we drank tea in the spacious kitchen.
“Tonia told me you’re building a career,” she began instead of greeting.
“I lead a department at StroyImpuls,” I answered proudly.
“Glad you’re independent,” she nodded. “But no plans for children? Polina is already nine; she could use a little brother or sister. Svetlana manages everything — she works, raises the daughter, and organizes classes.”
Anton coughed, attempting to interject.
“Mom, let’s not…” he started.
“What did I say wrong?” she replied, surprised. “My son needs a true family, not just career ambitions.”
Anger and hurt rose in my throat. Svetlana once again occupied the central role, deemed an ideal in her eyes.
“We’re not thinking about children now,” I responded calmly. “Right now, we have other priorities.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “Career is more important. Family… less so.”
During the drive home, I stayed silent as Anton apologized with his eyes:
“Don’t mind her, Mom just worries about Polina. She fears a new baby would distract me.”
This reasoning seemed odd, but I said nothing. In those months, silence became my shield.
My work became my refuge. My professional qualities were valued there. After a successful deal, I received a bonus and planned to refresh the apartment — buy a new sofa, replace curtains, and possibly re-paper the bedroom walls.
One evening, arranging my budget at the kitchen table, Anton sat quietly, glancing at his phone from time to time.
“Which sofa color do you like?” I asked, showing a catalog.
He shrugged:
“I don’t mind; you choose.”
His distracted and distant demeanor worried me. Since moving in together, Anton’s mood swung from friendly to withdrawn.
“Is something wrong?” I asked directly.
“Just tired. A lot of work,” he replied.
The phone vibrated; he grabbed it quickly, read a message, then frowned and placed the screen down.
“I have a meeting with a colleague tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll come back early.”
I nodded, hiding my concern. My intuition hinted that something was amiss.
Two weeks later, a call from my mother-in-law surprised me.
“I was at Polina’s yesterday,” she started abruptly. “Wanted to congratulate you on the new apartment. Svetlana really did a wonderful job organizing everything!”
Frozen with the phone at my ear, the phrase “new apartment” echoed in my mind — where?
“Did Tonia tell you?” she continued, her tone tinged with malice. “He bought Polina a two-room place on Komendantsky so she’d have her own home for the future and a meeting spot with her father. Isn’t that touching?”
Dizziness overtook me. We lived in my apartment, I paid the bills, and Anton had been scraping by with odd jobs after being laid off.
“Nina Sergeyevna, Anton didn’t mention any of this to me. You must be mistaken.”
“Oh, he didn’t say? Then it was meant to be a surprise. Or…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “you understand.”
I clearly understood what the “or” implied. A heavy, poisonous silence filled the room.
Throughout the workday, I struggled to concentrate, wondering where Anton found the money and why he concealed the purchase. Was the home truly for a daughter he only saw a few times a month, or was it actually for his ex-wife?
That evening, I placed a furniture catalog I’d found in his bag on the table.
“What’s this?” he asked, frowning.
“Your mother congratulated me on the new apartment for Polina on Komendantsky,” I replied calmly.
His face drained of color, and fear enveloped me. He stood up, pacing with clenched fists.
“Why did she call you?” Anton sighed.
“Is it true?” I asked with a trembling voice.
He sat down, covering his face with his hands.
“You see, it’s for Polina’s future, so she’d have her own place.”
“When were you going to tell me? After the housewarming?” I tried to keep calm, though rage boiled inside. “Where did the money come from?”
Silent for a moment, then he looked at me:
“Mom helped with the down payment; the rest is a loan, I sold the summer house, and some other things.”
“A loan? In your name? You’ve been working odd jobs for months!”
“Svetlana took out the loan; she has a steady income and good credit.”
My vision blurred as pieces fell into place.
“And who will repay it?”
“I will help, and Svetlana too,” he hurriedly answered. “All for Polina.”
“For Polina…” I echoed. “Didn’t you think healthy relationships were more important for a nine-year-old than an apartment? Why keep it secret?”
“I was afraid you would object.”
Those words were the last straw.
“Get out,” I whispered. “Immediately.”
Later, the lawyer sympathetically examined the documents.
“Your husband bought the property during marriage, and it’s registered under his name?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “With the down payment made and the loan approved.”
“Is there proof?”
I handed over a flash drive containing bank statements, correspondence, and certificates, including testimonies from Anton’s mother.
The lawyer smiled:
“By law, property acquired during marriage is considered joint, regardless of whose name it is under. You may file a claim for property division.”
The trial lasted three months. Svetlana sat impassively while the lawyer presented evidence. In the corridor, my mother-in-law hissed accusations about destroying the family. I merely smiled in return:
“Which family exactly, Nina Sergeyevna? Mine or Svetlana’s?”
When the judge ordered half of the apartment’s cost to be paid by the defendant, Anton paled.
“Almost three million,” he whispered. “I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then you’ll sell the apartment or take another loan. Your choice. But remember, it’s for Polina’s future.”
Leaving the courtroom, a strange sense of relief washed over me. Financial resources can’t restore lost time, but they pave the way for a fresh start. My final glance fell on that strange trio — pale Anton, weeping Svetlana, and mother-in-law with pursed lips.
Important Insight: Not everything that glitters is gold. My calm Anton was not who he appeared to be. His kind eyes and soft smile were only a mask. Now, the mask is off, and I finally feel free.
A phone buzzed in my pocket — a message from my lawyer: “Congratulations on your victory! To your health!” I smiled, sensing this toast celebrated my wellbeing and the beginning of a new life, free from Anton and his “former” family, which, as it turned out, was never truly one.
“Marriage is not just a union of two individuals, but a merging of two worlds with their entire histories.” — Erich Maria Remarque
That was my experience: a challenging journey filled with emotional trials, surprising revelations, and, ultimately, the discovery of inner freedom and a new perspective.