The white envelope lay deep in my bag, solid and embossed, but empty. I had bought it to appear distinguished, hoping Galina Petrovna would handle it with the usual expectation before opening it. As I rode in the taxi towards my mother-in-law’s place, the city outside blurred in dreary tones, rain splashed against the windows, dimming the glow of the evening storefronts. The driver hummed a tune—an old love song about farewells. Staring at my reflection in the rain-streaked glass, I pondered, were seven years long or short?
Seven years ago, I married Artem. His mother had eyed me like an unwelcome mistake her son had made—a choice she might correct if not for that irrevocable stamp in the passport. “Well, Olenka,” she once addressed me, stretching my name as if it left a bitter taste. “Let’s hope you’re at least a good homemaker.”
I didn’t fit her version of a good homemaker. Saturdays didn’t see me baking pies or pickling cucumbers. Instead, I worked tirelessly in an advertising agency, starting as a manager and climbing up to art director within three years. Then, I moved into a major international company as the creative director. With my rising income, so did grow Galina Petrovna’s silent disdain.
But she never refused my money.
The first envelope I offered on her fiftieth birthday, eager to honor her role as my husband’s mother. Fifty thousand rubles. She feigned modesty, then swiftly pocketed it, remarking, “Well, thank you. Though, baking a cake would have been more heartfelt.”
From then, envelopes became a routine—New Year, International Women’s Day, birthdays. Requests followed. “Olenka, I wish I could visit the sanatorium, but you see how my pension is…” “Olenka, the fridge is failing; could you help?” “Olenka, I saw a beautiful coat, but the price…”
I assisted. Paid for sanatorium trips, bought a new fridge, then a washing machine, and later, an Italian leather sofa she spotted in a magazine. I covered her dental work, gifted her extravagant boots, a real fur coat, and gold earrings.
Artem never objected. He preferred not to meddle in our interactions, balancing precariously between two worlds. “You earn well,” he’d say when I hinted at her growing expectations. “And she’s alone since Dad passed.”
Yet, in her eyes, I remained foreign. Too independent, too dedicated to work, too little time for her son. And most importantly—not Katya.
Katya. Kathryn Vorontsova. Artem’s school sweetheart, frequently remembered by Galina Petrovna with a fondness born of a worn-out record. “What a girl Katya was—modest, quiet, all in her mother’s image. And her cooking! I remember a lovely apple pie she once brought…” Detailed descriptions of the pie followed.
I listened, teeth clenched, silently. Katya married a military man and moved away, either to Khabarovsk or Vladivostok—somewhere far. I felt gratitude toward her unknown husband for taking away my husband’s former love.
However, three weeks ago, Katya returned. I found out by chance. Artem came home late, smelling of rain and unfamiliar perfume—a light, floral scent, not mine. He seemed absent-minded, smiling at thoughts only he knew.
“Guess who I ran into today?” he announced, slipping off his tie. “Katya Vorontsova. Remember I told you about her? She’s divorced now and moved back. Staying with her aunt.”
I remembered. Every bit of it.
• How was she?” I asked, striving for nonchalance.
“She’s doing well. We chatted a bit, had coffee. She’s teaching biology now.”
Coffee. Just a random encounter over coffee. I wanted to believe in its randomness, but something within me stirred uneasily.
Two days later, Galina Petrovna called, asking me to stop by as she had old documents for Artem. I visited her on a workday when Artem wasn’t home. She greeted me more warmly than usual, even serving tea.
When I went to the bathroom, I passed her bedroom and heard a message alert. Her phone lay on the dresser, screen aglow with an unread text. Not intending to pry, the sender’s name caught my eye: “Katya.”
“Thank you, Galina Petrovna, for the lunch! How lovely it was to see Artem again. You were right; there’s so much we haven’t caught up on. Looking forward to our next meeting.”
Returning to the living room, I casually inquired if she knew Katya was back. Her expression froze briefly, then melted into a smile.
“Of course! What a coincidence meeting her at the market. She’s still the same nice girl. I’ve invited her over some time.”
“I see,” I said, understanding nothing yet.
Watching Artem subsequently, I observed his shift in routine—staying late at work, once claiming a meeting with school friends. Checking his phone, no group chats, no reunions arranged. Instead, a text exchange with his mother: “Mom, it’s inappropriate. I’m married.” Her reply: “Just meet; talk it over. Katya’s struggling after the divorce.”
I called one of Artem’s actual classmates, Max, who confirmed there was no planned gathering among friends.
My husband, who had never lied before, was now deceiving me about classmates’ meetings.
I hired a private detective. Yes, it seemed melodramatic, like a cliché TV series, but I needed the truth.
The investigator’s report revealed photos and details. Artem met with Katya thrice. Once in a cafe near his office, another in a park. The third meeting happened at Galina Petrovna’s place, where a cake adorned the table she set up. In the captured images, she looked at them with endearing fondness, as though witnessing a reunion of separated lovers.
- Reviewing those images in our airy, sunlit apartment, one I paid for, cold anger ignited in me—not tears, not hysteria, but clear and quiet fury.
Galina Petrovna had been arranging meetings between my husband and his ex. The very woman I had supported, indulging her whims for years, orchestrated these encounters behind my back, naively presuming I’d remain unaware.
I showed the photos to Artem. He went pale, scrambling for justification:
“Olya, it’s not what you think. Mom asked me to meet Katya; she’s down after the divorce. I was just comforting an old friend…”
- Three times?” I replied, disturbingly calm. “And you didn’t think to mention this? You lied about classmates, Artem.”
- He claimed I’d never understand.
“Indeed, I won’t. Because if your mother arranges secret meetings with your ex, she wishes to disrupt our marriage. And you allowed it.”
Our conversation lasted long. Artem swore nothing happened, that Katya was merely a past chapter, insisting he loved me. Perhaps he was sincere. But the root issue wasn’t him—it was Galina Petrovna, who had been waiting for this opportunity to replace me with her favored daughter-in-law.
“Your mother crossed a line,” I decreed. “I won’t endure this again.”
The next day, Galina Petrovna called as usual, inquiring sweetly for help with another dental procedure. “Thirty thousand for proper treatment,” she explained, her pension insufficient once more.
Thirty thousand. While she covertly paired my husband with Katya.
I agreed to visit that evening. Thus, I found myself in a taxi, an empty envelope in my purse.
Warmly greeting me, Galina Petrovna had prepared a table with tea, biscuits, and sweets. Settling on the familiar leather couch, she launched into her health woes, the cost of treatments, doctors’ incompetence. I listened, nodded, sipping tea.
“Did you bring it?” she finally asked, anticipation flickering in her eyes.
Drawing the ornate envelope from my bag, I placed it on the table between us. Galina Petrovna lifted it, mentally counting its imagined contents. Peeking inside, her face fell.
“It’s empty?” her confusion apparent. “Olga, is this a mistake?”
“No mistake,” I asserted, setting my cup down firmly.
Her disbelief grew—