The door to the sauna had swollen from the moisture, and I had to push it open with my shoulder. A wave of heat mixed with the scent of birch branches and someone’s sweet, cheap deodorant hit me. I stepped in, clutching an armful of firewood to add more logs to the fire.
From the steam room, I heard a giggle, sharp like a mouse squeaking. “Oleg, stop it! You’re tickling me!” a woman’s voice shrieked, sending a shiver down my spine.
Logs fell from my arms onto the wooden floor, but the sound of running water and their laughter drowned out the noise. Impossible to mistake, the voice belonged to Lera, my son’s wife. “Oleg” referred to my husband, the father of her husband, with whom I’d spent 25 years.
Everything around me didn’t just crack; it collapsed like plaster falling on my head.
My first impulse was to burst in, grab a ladle of hot water, and cause a scene loud enough for everyone in the village to hear. But my feet seemed glued to the damp floor, and my heart pounded in my throat.
My eyes landed on a wide bench where two smartphones lay. One, in a worn black case, belonged to Oleg; the other, glittery pink, belonged to Lera. Their screens glowed faintly, not yet locked after some video.
I moved closer, careful not to make the floorboards creak. A recent photo showed them posing against our brick stove. My husband wore our son’s sauna hat with “King” written on it, while Lera pressed against his wet shoulder, sticking out her tongue.
- The caption read, yet unsent: “The old man still got it!”
Feeling a cold, calculated clarity replace the shock, I placed the remaining log on the floor and picked up Lera’s phone. Without a lock, I quickly accessed our family chat “Beloved Family” filled with holiday wishes and updates on Grandma Galya’s health.
I selected their selfie and hit “Send.” The image loaded, marked by two blue checks. I added a caption: “Walked into the sauna to add logs, found husband with son’s wife. Quietly sent their ‘selfie’ to the family chat. Have a lovely evening.” I then put their phones back precisely where they were and silently left the sauna. Closing the door with a gentle metal clang of the hook, I stepped into the evening air.
Compared to the chaos inside, the buzzing of mosquitoes sounded like a symphony.
Sitting on the porch, I took out my phone as the reactions began in our chat. Aunt Svetlana asked if it was a joke. Lera’s mom inquired if it was a celebration. Activity stirred inside the sauna as the water noise stopped, followed by a thud, as if someone slipped.
“Where’s the phone?!” Oleg’s voice came through the wooden door. “On the bench!” Lera replied. Sounds of panic ensued as notifications chimed continuously.
Amidst the chaos, my son Nikita messaged, asking if I was home. I assured him I was. “I’ll be on the first flight. Don’t let them in,” he replied.
In the sauna, urgent knocking then thumped against the door. Oleg tried to explain it away, claiming hackers or new technology. Lera pleaded through the wood.
I poured myself a glass of cold water and approached the sauna door, not unlocking it but speaking clearly, “Talk to Nikita. Your in-law’s on his way from the sound of the engine.”
With a calm heart, I shed the weight of endless doubts and criticisms keener than unwarranted complaints about unsalted soup. The whole truth had been in the adjoining room, resting with phones now devoid of hidden secrets.