“Be grateful that after thirty years of marriage I still come home instead of ‘docking’ at some other harbor,” Gennady declared, his tone smug—as if he’d just granted his wife a favor.

“And if I cheated on you too?” Marina asked, meeting his eyes.

“For a woman, cheating is unnatural; for a man, it’s nature. Besides, who’d want you at your age?” He curled his lip.

It wasn’t as if Marina hadn’t seen the signs. Lately Gennady fussed over himself: expensive cologne, freshly shaved, shirts pressed and buttoned just so, phone carried even into the bathroom. When she called him “Little Elephant”—the pet name from university days when he’d been adorably chubby—he snapped, “Aren’t you ashamed? Baby talk is for kids.”

Still, Marina kept soothing herself: “We’ve been through fire and water together, raised two children; you don’t just throw that away. He’s cranky because he’s tired. He hides his phone because of work—confidential stuff…”

Until the evening he tossed his head and, almost proudly, announced, “I’ll be straight with you: I have another woman. I don’t want to deceive you, so I’m telling you now.”

Marina bit her lip to keep from a nervous laugh; his “confession” stance looked like he thought he’d done something noble.

“After all these years you can do this?” burst out before she could stop it.

“Exactly. Thirty years with one woman—it’s like eating only fried potatoes for thirty years. Tastes good, but you get sick of it. I’ll be sixty soon; I’ve achieved things; I deserve happiness! I’m young at heart!”

“Hurting your wife is happiness?”

“Don’t dramatize. Two colleagues of mine left their families and took all the money; their wives were left with nothing. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep living with you—because I’m a decent man. I’ll just allow myself a few ‘male pleasures.’”

That night Marina sat in the kitchen drinking tea till the sky turned gray. The apartment was silent save for the clock’s tick. “Maybe I should go… but where? No savings—everything went to the family. And I… still love him. Thirty years can’t be meaningless. It must be a midlife crisis.”

But Gennady’s “small pleasures” were anything but small. In the evenings he’d purposely put on his best suit, mist himself in vetiver, study his reflection, and say casually, “I’m going to the theater.”

Everything inside Marina screamed, but she refused to let him see her bleeding. “Have a lovely time,” she said, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t be going alone.

When the door clicked shut, she stood before the mirror a long time. Staring back: a still-pretty woman, but tired, a little stooped.

“Yes, I let myself go—gained weight, old-fashioned dresses, gray at the roots… No wonder he’s looking elsewhere; I can hardly stand to look at me. I’m booking a salon—not for him, for me.”

Gennady noticed at once but only snorted. “Preening? Pointless. At your age you won’t get it back.”

“I don’t recognize you,” Marina said, unable to hold it in. “Last year you called me the most beautiful woman in the world. Now you throw mud. What changed you so fast?”

“I looked back at my life. I’ve spent it serving others—covered for you on maternity leave, raised the kids through eighteen, pushed them through college… I want to live for myself for once, without anyone hanging from my neck.”

By the end, he was almost shouting—spiteful, as if facing an enemy.

“I sacrificed too,” Marina said quietly. “I used to sing. I wanted the conservatory. But I took accounting to start earning sooner so you could build a career. I hate the job, but I endured it—for the children, for you, for us.”

“You should thank me,” he sneered. “I saved you from the greatest humiliation of your life and saved the world from one more talentless singer. You’re no Babkina.”

That jibe was the last straw. Marina suddenly remembered the student Gena with shining eyes who’d begged, “Sing again—your voice is as beautiful as you.”

Now his eyes were cold, faintly disgusted.

“Can love really burn out this clean?” she thought. “Yes. It can.”

She thought the humiliation ended there, but worse was coming. Gennady had bragged not only to his wife but to their grown sons. They rushed over to scold him.

“Dad, are you crazy? Affairs at your age—let alone with someone ours?” the elder snapped.

“You and Mom have been together so long—don’t make a spectacle of yourself in your twilight years!” the younger echoed.

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Gennady shrugged. “I’ve fulfilled my duty to you all, so I have the right to live as I wish. And if you demand I erase myself again—remember: I still support you. If you don’t like it, I’ll cut the allowance. Take care of yourselves.”

The boys fell silent, traded uneasy looks, then glanced at their mother with guilty eyes.

“Sorry, Mom,” the younger muttered.

“Sold their mother for money,” Marina thought bitterly.

As if that weren’t enough, a week later her gossiping friend came running, wearing a mask of concern and eyes bright with excitement. “Your man showed up to the company party with some little mop—looked about twenty! Brazen too—grinning at everyone, swishing her tail, flashing the earrings he bought her. Everyone else brought wives; he brought a floozy.”

She fell quiet, watching Marina, hungry for a scene to retail.

“You expect me to crack and cry,” Marina realized. “I won’t give you the morsel.”

“Nice to hear Gena isn’t stingy—he paid the girl for services rendered,” Marina said coolly.

Shock and disappointment flickered across her friend’s face.

Once the door shut, Marina burst into tears. She’d bottled everything for years, clinging to her mother’s maxim: “Only weaklings cry—strong people defend themselves.” But public disgrace broke her.

When Gennady came home, a vase flew. “Are you insane?!” he yelled, fear flashing for an instant.

“So it actually feels… good to make a scene,” Marina noted, flinging another object.

“I kept quiet about your fooling around, but you dragged the filth into public! I mean your antics and that girl at the party. Maybe you don’t love me, but after thirty years don’t I deserve respect?”

“I won’t be ashamed of my happiness. I fulfilled my marital duty; now I do as I please. Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then don’t tell me either,” Marina shot back. “You’ve chosen your life; I’ll live mine. I’ll get myself a man—how do you like that?”

“Don’t make me laugh—who’d want you? A woman past fifty. Besides, men are naturally polygamous, so it’s not cheating—just nature’s call. A loose woman is another matter. Don’t even think of it—don’t disgrace my gray hairs!”

“What gray hairs—you’re just bald,” Marina said sweetly.

Next morning he stormed, “Why didn’t you wash my shirts?”

Touching up her lipstick, Marina replied, “Because your shirts are no longer my life. Ask your girlfriend—let her earn those earrings.”

“You’re still my wife, and I support you!”

“I can support myself. You won’t blackmail me with money like you do our sons,” she snapped her compact shut. “Excuse me—I have a salon appointment.”

“You didn’t even make breakfast!”

“Order pizza—young people eat that,” she called, closing the door.

She hurried to the salon, then to the shops. Once, a fight would have ruined her day; now she fizzed like soda. “So this is what it’s like to break free of a stale life.”

“Dyed your hair?” Gennady eyed her that evening.

Marina tossed her head. “I’ve wanted to for ages. Didn’t suit the ‘matriarch’ role. Fits a free woman perfectly.”

“Nothing more disgusting than an aging woman trying to be young,” he grimaced.

“Or an aging man in cartoon T-shirts,” Marina answered, tapping his protruding belly.

“It’s fashionable.”

“On real heartthrobs, maybe.”

The new hair gave her the feeling she could do anything. “In a way he’s right—we serve family and kids and hardly live for ourselves. Time to ask what I want—and give it to myself.”

She changed her wardrobe: strict office dresses for light, flowing fabrics; a pair of ripped-knee jeans she’d secretly loved for their mischief.

“Looks great,” she told the mirror. “You’re holding up, girl.”

Naturally, Gennady hated it. “Cover up—no one wants those bony knees.”

“And you’re the one fighting hardest to look young,” she noted.

“That’s different—men age into charm; women don’t.”

She could have argued, but the first day out with new hair and jeans she caught interested male glances—for the first time in ten years. It felt good.

Outer changes done, Marina turned inward—to her dream. She’d always sung: lullabies, soft humming over dishes. The stage dream had never died.

“Too late for a career, but I can sing for me,” she decided.

Fate stepped closer when she saw a flyer for an amateur choir. She was shy at first, then relaxed—the others were like her: grown-ups stealing time for a dream. The conductor’s praise warmed her to the core: “Your voice is rich and beautiful—one could listen for hours.”

Marina realized she hadn’t felt this happy in years.

Her husband loathed the changes. He had no intention of being a husband to her, but loved having a live-in maid. “You’re out of control—always gone, not cooking, barely cleaning. Don’t forget: this is my apartment; I paid for it!”

“I paid with my youth, raising our children. If you dislike me living here, we can divorce and split the place,” she said evenly.

“You say ‘divorce’ like it’s nothing. Do thirty years mean nothing to you?”

She thought he was mocking, but his face showed genuine dismay.

“They mean a lot—that’s the only reason I’m still here. But you were the first to betray it,” she answered.

One evening after rehearsal, a man who’d joined the choir around the same time approached her. “I admire your singing. Did you ever perform professionally? You have not only the voice but the presence of an artist.”

“Oh, not at all,” Marina blushed.

“It’s been so long since anyone complimented me—I’ve forgotten how,” she thought. “And his eyes…”

He smiled, and the butterflies—long dormant—took flight.

That’s how it began with Igor. At first guilt gnawed, but by the third date it receded before a flood of happiness. They had much in common, and most of all, he looked at her as Gennady had in youth.

One thing nagged: Igor was ten years younger.

“Horrible—you’ve gotten mixed up with an old woman!” she exclaimed when she learned his age.

“Marina, you’re not old. You’re a beautiful woman in her prime. And you look very young.”

“You flatter me,” she blushed.

“It’s the truth. And another truth: I want us to live together, not just grab hours here and there.”

“You’re asking me to leave my husband?”

“I won’t ask you to do that. But if it comes to it—know that I’m here, waiting.”

She walked home so deep in thought she didn’t notice arriving.

“Finally decided to show up!” Gennady greeted brazenly. “Out late every night—like you’re eighteen again,” he chuckled.

Marina looked at him and saw not her beloved Gena but a grumbling stranger—bald patch shining, mouth corners drooping, unattractive and unwanted.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.

“For what?” he blinked.

“If not for your fooling around, I’d still be home—miserable, letting myself go. Now I have something I love, and a man ten years younger with beautiful eyes and a beautiful voice. And you—you’re my past.”

As she spoke, a stone fell from her feet and wings grew in its place. She walked on, no longer listening to his sputtering.

Marina moved in with Igor and filed for divorce at once, soon quitting her job when she was offered a position teaching voice. She earned a little less—but was wildly happy.

A few weeks later Gennady called. “Enough nonsense. Come home. I forgive you; we’ll start over. I even broke up with that girl.”

“You’d better make up with her—someone has to keep an eye on you,” Marina replied. “As for me, I’m far too happy to come back. The convictions of an arrogant husband never change.”

She hung up. Evening light poured gold through the window. Marina cracked it open and heard children in the courtyard singing a familiar tune—the one she’d teach her new class. She smiled. Happiness needs no one’s permission. And sometimes, only after walking through betrayal do you finally find yourself.