Fate
“Guess who I was chatting with today? Lyudmila. And guess what? Alex has been fooling around again,” said Tamara during the TV ad break, which had interrupted their evening drama on BBC Two.
She glanced at her husband. He was lounging against the propped-up pillows, half-sitting, half-lying, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Vic, are you even listening? Alex is at it again,” she repeated when he didn’t respond.
“I heard you. What’s it to you?” he muttered.
“What do you mean? Lyudmila’s my friend. I care about her. Has Alex said anything to you?” Tamara studied her husband’s profile carefully.
“He doesn’t report to me. Haven’t seen him in ages. And honestly, your friend’s a bit of a drama queen. I’d stray too if I were married to her. Enough about that—the show’s back on.”
“Oh, really? That’s what he told you? So Lyudmila’s the problem, is she? It’s always the woman’s fault with you lot, isn’t it? Just an excuse for your tomcat ways. And who made her like that? He’s been at it for years!” Tamara pursed her lips while her husband stared stubbornly at the screen.
“Listen, you scold me all the time too. How many times have you told me to wipe my feet before coming inside? Tracking mud and sand everywhere. Never rinsing the bath after yourself… Does that make me a nag too? Maybe you’re off gallivanting as well? Keeping him company?” Tamara fixed him with a glare.
“Here we go. Now it’s my turn.” Victor threw off the duvet and got up. “I’ll finish watching in the kitchen.”
“I’m just worried about my friend,” Tamara called after him.
“They used to be so in love. He’d climb up to her window with flowers, second floor and all! What’s wrong with you men?” she shouted toward the open door.
“While you’re courting, we’re your ‘sweethearts’ and ‘darlings.’ Then the minute you find a mistress, we’re just ‘nags,’” she muttered to herself, as if he could still hear. “Lyudmila forgave him so many times. The first time, he was on his knees, swearing it’d never happen again, crying his eyes out. She let it go for the kids’ sake. But no, Alex is a ‘good man’—just wrings her dry. Guess he’ll keep at it till he’s withered away…” Tamara trailed off, listening. No sound came from the kitchen.
*Or is Victor cheating too? Why’d he bolt like that? Hit a nerve? No, he’s too lazy. Alex at least keeps in shape, hits the gym. Mine’s got a gut, his hair’s thinning…*
But the doubt took root, sprouting unease. Tamara barely registered the show anymore. She slipped on her slippers and headed to the kitchen. Victor sat smoking at the table, blowing smoke toward the half-open window. A draft curled in, making her shiver.
“Since when do you smoke?”
He startled, ash scattering onto the table.
“Bloody hell, you scared me.” Victor brushed the ash onto the floor. “Maybe I’m upset too. Alex and I go way back.”
“Then talk to him. Isn’t he ashamed in front of his kids? What kind of example is he setting?” Tamara grabbed the ashtray from the windowsill and set it before him.
“Like he’d listen to me. Not my place to lecture him. His life, his mess.” Victor took one last drag, stubbed out the cigarette, then shut the window.
“Let’s get some sleep.” He walked past her without a glance.
Tamara shook her head, turned off the light, and followed. Victor lay turned away from her side of the bed. On the telly, *Question Time* droned on. She switched it off, then the lamp. They’d been falling asleep like this for months now—backs turned, worlds apart.
They’d met in their carefree uni days, utterly smitten. Married two years later. Life unfolded as it does—rows, makeups, the usual grind. Their daughter grew up, graduated, moved to London. Tamara never pondered happiness. Yet she’d been happy. Friends divorced, remarried, each with their own sob story. But they’d lasted twenty-seven years, married twenty-five. A quarter of a century.
Lyudmila’s voice echoed in her head: *”Why does he do this to me? I gave him everything. Raised his kids. Now I’ve got no youth left, no husband—just loneliness in my twilight years…”*
Across the bed, Victor lay awake too, eyes wide in the dark, swallowing sighs, holding perfectly still.
Two days later, Victor came home late. Tamara didn’t fret. It happened. Traffic, mates, overtime—his mood always gave it away. Tipsy and cheerful? Pints with the lads. Grumpy? Work nonsense.
Finally, the lock turned. She heard him undressing—no usual huffing or grumbling. Then kitchen footsteps.
He sat slumped against the wall, tense as a coiled spring. Tamara’s stomach dropped. That same unease from before slithered through her. Victor stared blankly ahead, like a man steeling himself.
“Something wrong?” she asked softly, dread swelling, pricking her eyes. “Want me to heat up dinner?”
“No, I’m fine.” He stood, avoiding her gaze, and left.
A whiff of perfume. Not his. But familiar. She’d caught it before.
She waited in the lounge, but he never came. Sick? Asleep already? She peeked into the bedroom. Still in his work suit, he sat on the edge of the bed, hands locked between his knees, head bowed.
“Vic…”
“Sit down,” he said.
She obeyed, catching that foreign scent again, thick with his tension. She already knew.
“I won’t lie. There’s someone else,” he finally said.
“You’re leaving?”
A pointless question. Men only said this after deciding.
“Yes. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
*Constantly. So it’s been going on a while. And here I thought it was just the lads.* Tamara smirked.
“If you go, don’t expect me to take you back like Lyudmila.”
“I know. It’s decided. I can’t keep lying. I’ll pack and go.”
She wanted to ask—*What about me? Our daughter? Twenty-five years?* But suddenly, none of it mattered. She’d always thought they were different. Known she’d never tolerate what Lyudmila endured.
She left without another word. The clatter of hangers, the zip of a suitcase. Then he stood before her, still in that same suit.
“Sorry.”
Tamara bit back tears and screams. No scene. Let the other woman wonder how his wife let him go so quietly. She’d crumble later.
The door clicked shut. Then came the tears—self-pity, rage, helplessness. When the shock ebbed, she called Lyudmila. Only she’d understand. They wept together for lost youth, for the lot of women.
She told their daughter nothing during their calls. Tamara convinced herself solitude suited her. No cooking, no mopping his muddy footprints, no snoring to keep her awake. She tackled long-neglected chores. Stay busy—that’s how you handle grief.
She waited. Knew she couldn’t forgive, but waited anyway. Weeks passed, then months. One evening, she logged into Facebook—first time in ages.
Two messages. A stranger named Frederick wanted to chat. If she was free, he’d love to talk.
Her profile pic was a decade old—smiling, youthful. Back then, updating it drew men like flies (often from dodgy locales). She’d always ignored them.
Frederick’s avatar was clearly stock. No posts, no friends. A blank slate.
Weird. She nearly deleted it. Then—*Why not? Let Victor see I’ve moved on too.*
She wrote back: *Married. Fine with chatting, but keep it polite. No innuendos. We’re not divorced yet.*
Thus began their letters. Frederick rambled, philosophized, quoted Keats and Larkin. Tamara waited for each message like a schoolgirl. If days passed, she worried—*Is he ill?*
*”Know what ‘fate’ means? The first half is ‘doom,’ ‘judgment.’ The second is ‘soul.’ So fate is the soul’s reckoning. No soul, no man. ‘Not meant to be’ means ‘not deserved.’ Fate’s just karma… Interesting, eh? Read it online.”*
Then came his confessions: He’d hurt his wife. Betrayed her. Felt hollow, undeserving. Missed his old life, his old love…
Tamara froze. It was their storyShe stood in the hospital doorway, watching Victor’s face light up when he saw her, and knew—despite the pain, despite the betrayal—some threads of fate are woven too tightly to ever fully unravel.
