I closed the last little cake box with cling film. Candles, gifts, congratulations—all behind me now. My sixtieth birthday had been a great success!

The guests had already left, and only Marina—my friend since our student years—stayed to help with the cleanup.

“Sveta, don’t touch the dishes,” Marina took the plate out of my hands. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow. Let’s have some tea instead.”

I nodded gratefully. Viktor peeked into the kitchen:

“Girls, I turned on the TV. If you need anything, just call.”

“Go on, Vitya, relax,” I waved him off. “You’ve been running around enough today.”

When he left, Marina poured fragrant tea into the cups.

“How long has it been since we last saw each other? Two years?”

“Three, Marina. Since you moved to Petersburg.”

We fell silent. It felt good just to sit like this after the noisy celebration. Marina suddenly frowned.

“It was a good evening. Only…”

“What?” I tensed.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on, Marina! Don’t start. Out with it.” I nudged her cup.

She winced.
“All right. Your Vitya… didn’t you notice anything odd?”

I was surprised.
“What do you mean?”

“With your neighbor, the young one. What’s her name…”

“Anya?”

“Yeah. He was talking to her a little too sweetly.”

I snorted.
“Oh, please! Vitya’s like that with everyone. He’s the life of the party!”

“Sveta,” Marina looked at me seriously. “I saw him showing her his phone. They were laughing over something, and then she put her hand on his shoulder.”

“She’s alone with the baby—her husband’s away on business trips. Vitya just helps her sometimes,” I heard myself defending him.

“And when you two were dancing, he was watching her. You know what I mean.”

“You’re exaggerating, Marina!”

But something inside me wavered. I remembered how Anya asked Vitya to get something off the top shelf when other men were right there. And how he lingered at the door with her when he was seeing the guests out.

“Forget it,” Marina sighed. “Maybe I imagined it.”

“Thirty years together, Marina. You know how much we’ve been through? He’s never… well, you know.” I fussed with the tablecloth nervously.

“Are you sure?”

I wanted to say “yes,” but suddenly I remembered. Two months ago, Vitya started staying out late more often. A new cologne. His phone, always kept close.

“Don’t mind me, Sveta,” Marina tried to smooth it over. “I’ll only make you worry for nothing.”

“It’s fine,” I smiled stiffly. “I’m just tired after the party.”

From the living room came Vitya’s laughter—he was on the phone. With whom? At eleven at night?

“I’ll go check,” I got up.

“Sveta,” Marina caught my hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil the evening.”

“It’s all right, really,” I lied.

Vitya was sitting in the armchair, buried in his phone. He saw me and quickly set it aside.

“Done with your tea already?” he asked a little too cheerfully.

“Yeah,” I tried to sound casual. “Who were you talking to?”

“Huh?” He hesitated for a moment. “Oh, Sergei called, congratulating you. You didn’t pick up earlier, so we talked.”

Sergei? My brother? He had congratulated me in the morning.

“Something wrong?” Vitya watched me too closely.

“No, all good,” I smiled. “I’ll go make up the guest bed for Marina.”

That night, I lay awake for a long time. Beside me, Vitya breathed peacefully. I stared at the ceiling. Could Marina be right? After thirty years, had I missed what she saw in one evening?

Morning came gray and gloomy. Marina left early to catch her train back to Petersburg. She hugged me goodbye and whispered:
“Sorry about yesterday, Sveta. Maybe I was wrong…”

“It’s fine,” I forced a smile. “Come again soon.”

When the door closed, I was alone with my thoughts. Vitya had gone to work—Monday as usual, no exceptions for the fact his wife had turned sixty the day before.

I tidied up automatically, washed dishes. Yesterday’s conversation kept replaying in my head. “Too flirty.” The words gnawed at me.

The phone rang—it was Anya.

“Hi, Sveta! Thanks for yesterday, it was great! Listen, can I stop by for that baking pan you promised to lend me?”

“Of course,” I said. “When?”

“Half an hour okay?”

Anya rushed in, a little breathless, wearing a light sundress, makeup unusually bright for just picking up a pan.

“Tea?” I offered.

“Sure! I’ve got half an hour before my online meeting.”

We sat in the kitchen. I watched her secretly. Twenty-eight, slim, lively. Nothing like me at her age.

“Vitya at work?” she asked casually.

“Yes, until evening.”

“Pity,” she smiled. “I wanted to thank him too. He’s so attentive!”

Something in her tone set me on edge.

“Yes, he’s wonderful,” I said evenly. “Thirty years together.”

“Wow!” She looked genuinely impressed. “That’s… rare nowadays.”

“And your husband—when’s he back?”

“Oleg?” She looked a bit embarrassed. “In a week. We… we’re going through a rough patch.”

“It happens,” I said, putting cups in the sink. “Sorry, Anya, I need to run some errands.”

After she left, I felt foolish. Acting like a jealous old woman! What if Marina was wrong? What if I’m imagining things?

I decided to check Vitya’s phone. In thirty years, I had never done this. I knew his password—our wedding date. Unless he had changed it.

It worked. My hands shook. Work chats, our own texts… and then I saw the thread with Anya. Last night:

Her: “Thanks for today! You’re amazing! Looking forward to our usual meeting.”
Him: “Me too. Tomorrow, same time?”
Her: “Of course! Did Svetka suspect anything?”
Him: “No, she doesn’t notice such things.”

The room blurred. I dropped the phone onto the couch and sat down. Doesn’t notice? Thirty years, and I “don’t notice such things”?

Scrolling up, I saw it had turned personal a couple of months ago. First neighborly help, then jokes, then… I couldn’t read further.

A new message flashed: “Came for the pan. You shouldn’t have rushed off so early.”

Vitya had said he went to work. But… God, how cliché! The young neighbor, trouble with her marriage. The oldest story in the book. And it was happening to me.

Her phrase kept echoing: “She doesn’t notice such things.” I pictured them laughing at me. Poor stupid Sveta! Naïve fool!

I dialed him.
“Hi. Where are you?”
“At work, of course. Why?” His voice was too bright.
“Nothing. When will you be back?”
“As usual, around seven. Why?”
“Just asking. See you then.”

I hung up, staring at the wall. What next? Explode? Swallow it? Thirty years, and now this.

I called Marina. She picked up after the third ring.
“Marina, you were right,” I blurted out.
“About what?”
“About Vitya and the neighbor.”

Silence.
“Sveta, what happened?”
“I read their messages. They… they’re seeing each other.”
“Holy hell…” Marina breathed. “I didn’t want to be right.”
“And I didn’t want to find out,” I laughed bitterly. “They wrote I ‘don’t notice such things.’ Can you imagine?”
“That little bitch,” Marina hissed. “And your Vitya… Maybe it’s not that serious?”
“No, Marina. It’s clear.”
“What now?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.

The rest of the day I paced the apartment. Thirty years down the drain? Divorce at sixty? Splitting the apartment? Explaining to everyone that my husband left me for the neighbor half my age?

By evening, I was exhausted. I decided to act normal, to look him in the eyes. To hear his lies.

He came home at seven sharp. With flowers.
“For you,” he said, handing me a bouquet. “A continuation of the celebration.”
“Thanks,” I took them. “How was work?”
“Same as always. Tired.”

At dinner, he rambled about work problems. I nodded, pretended to listen, while watching. How he avoided my eyes. How he fussed with his glasses. How often he checked his phone.

“Vitya,” I said finally. “Were you really at work today?”

He froze.
“What do you mean? Where else?”
“I don’t know. Maybe with Anya?”

His face changed. For a second, I saw panic.
“Nonsense,” he tried to laugh, but it sounded fake.

“I saw your messages, Vitya.”

“What messages?” His knuckles whitened around the fork.

“In your phone. Don’t pretend.”

He put his cutlery down.
“You snooped through my phone?”

“Yes. And you know what hurts most? Not even the cheating. But that you both laugh at me. ‘She doesn’t notice such things.’ That was fun to write?”

Vitya lowered his head.
“Sveta, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh? And what do I think? That my husband’s screwing the neighbor, then coming home and playing the good husband?”

“Sveta!”

“What, ‘Sveta’? You’re sixty-two, Vitya! You’re ridiculous!”

He jumped up.
“Yes, I’m sixty-two! So what? Should I just wait for death? She… she makes me feel alive!”

His words hit harder than a slap.

“And me?” My voice trembled. “I don’t make you feel alive? Thirty years, Vitya. Thirty!”

He collapsed back into the chair, covering his face with his hands.
“I’m sorry. I never wanted you to find out.”

“Of course! Convenient, isn’t it? Wife at home, young mistress on the side.”

“It’s not like that…”

“Then how? Explain it to me!” Tears streamed down my face.

He stared at the floor.
“How long?”
“Three months.”
“And now what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you love her?” I whispered.
“No,” he shook his head. “It’s not love.”
“Then what?”
“Foolishness,” he looked at me. “Old man’s foolishness.”

We talked until late. He told me how it began: fixing her sink, helping with her computer, listening to her marital woes. Then the usual story—compliments, hints, the first kiss.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said. “It just happened.”
“‘Just happened’? Did your clothes just fall off? Did you just end up in her bed?”
“Stop, Sveta!”
“No! You ruined everything!”

I locked myself in the bedroom. He stayed on the couch.

By morning, I had made a decision.
“I want you to move out. I need time. Without you.”
“You’re throwing me out?” He looked lost.
“I’m asking for space. Stay with our son for now.”
“And if I don’t want to leave?”
“Then I’ll go. But we need a break, Vitya. I can’t see you every day right now.”

He packed silently. At the door he said:
“Sveta, I’ll fix this. I promise.”
“Don’t promise,” I shook my head. “Just go.”

When the door shut, I cried. Thirty years. Kids, grandkids, friends, memories. And this is how it ends?

A week later, Marina called.
“How are you?”
“Alive,” I sighed. “Vitya’s with Dima. Calls every day, apologizes.”
“And you?”
“I don’t know. Forgive? Forget? Divorce? At sixty, start over?”
“You’re not guilty,” she said firmly. “Whatever you decide—you’re not guilty.”

A month later, we met at a café. Neutral ground. He looked worn, dark circles under his eyes.

“I miss you,” he said instead of hello.
“I miss you too,” I admitted.
“I ruined everything, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“I don’t know. Every time I try to forgive, I think—what if it happens again? Another Anya?”
“There won’t be,” he squeezed my hand. “I was a fool, flattered by a young girl’s attention. Like a schoolboy.”
“And her?”
“She’s back with her husband,” he said bitterly. “For her, it was a game. But I…”
“But you lost me.”
“Can I get you back?”

We started therapy. The psychologist said it was common—midlife crisis, fear of aging, need to feel attractive. That didn’t make it easier.

Vitya moved into a rented apartment. We dated—like in our youth. Movies, walks, talks. Sometimes I stayed with him, sometimes he with me. But we didn’t rush.

Six months later, I let him come home. Not because I forgave. I still remember those messages with pain. But because I realized: everyone makes mistakes. Even after thirty years of marriage.

Now I know there’s no such thing as a perfect marriage. I know trust has to be tested. And that you should never say, “It could never happen to us.”

And I know one more thing—Marina is a true friend. She wasn’t afraid to open my eyes. Thanks to her, I didn’t live years in an illusion. Sometimes the truth wounds, but lies kill slowly and painfully. For that truth, I’ll always be grateful.