“Hello. I’m Yuri’s wife. May I come in?”
For a week, the medical college had been buzzing ahead of the upcoming volleyball match against the engineering uni. Natasha’s best friend, Emma, had been pestering her since morning to go watch.
“I don’t like volleyball—sports in general, really. I don’t get the appeal,” Natasha protested.
“What’s there to get? We’ll just cheer for our lot, hope they win. Come on, do it for me?” Emma pleaded.
“It’s not the match you care about, it’s Simon,” Natasha sighed, but she agreed in the end.
The hall was packed, every bench along one wall filled. Before she knew it, Natasha was caught up in the game, shouting along with everyone else and waving flags—red for the medics, blue for the engineers. In the end, the medics won. The girls celebrated as if they’d scored the winning point themselves.
“Going home?” Natasha asked as they stepped out of the building. It was dark, streetlights glowing against the night.
“Let’s wait for Simon, congratulate him. He’ll be out soon,” Emma rasped, her voice hoarse from cheering.
They didn’t have to wait long. Simon emerged with another bloke, spotted the girls, and introduced them to his opponent—James, an old school friend. They walked together for a while, discussing the game, then split off—Simon walked Emma home, James walked Natasha. That was how it started.
A year later, after Natasha graduated, she and James got married. James had finished uni a year earlier and was already working. Both sets of parents chipped in for the deposit, and the young couple bought a two-bedroom flat with an eye toward future kids.
Three years into the marriage, Natasha had a son. Six years later, a daughter.
Between maternity leaves, Natasha worked at a dental clinic, treating relatives, friends, and their acquaintances. James was an engineer at a big firm. He rarely played volleyball now, just the odd summer game on the beach. But he’d kept in shape—still trim, still handsome. Every time she looked at him, Natasha remembered their first meeting. It was hard to imagine never having known him—all because she hadn’t wanted to go to that match.
Of course, the fiery passion of their first year had cooled, but they got on well—hosting holiday gatherings, weekend barbecues at friends’ cottages, summer holidays by the sea. They even went to Spain a couple of times—once just the two of them, once with their son, Oliver. (Daughter Emily was still just a plan back then.) Among their friends, they were the “perfect couple”—one of the few who’d stayed together all these years.
Emma watched them with quiet envy. She was sure Natasha and James owed their happiness to *her*. If she hadn’t talked Natasha into going to that match, they’d never have met. Emma and Simon, though? That fizzled out. She married someone else, divorced after two years, and was still searching for her own happy ending.
One evening, Natasha was helping Oliver with his Year 6 homework. Emily sat beside them, sketching intently, tongue peeking out in concentration.
“Mum—your phone, I think,” Oliver said, looking up from his workbook.
Natasha listened. Sure enough, the vibration hummed faintly—she always kept it on silent at home. The calls never stopped. Someone’s toothache needing advice, someone begging for a last-minute dental appointment for a “very important” someone. She answered every time—doctor’s duty, after all.
This time, it was Emma. Natasha hit answer and immediately said she was busy with homework, asked if they could talk later.
“Later might be too late,” Emma said. “James isn’t home, is he?”
“Still at work—said he’d be late. What’s up?”
“He’s *not* at work. Just saw him in a restaurant with some gorgeous girl. I’m on a date, stepped out to call you. They got in *his* car and drove off—probably to hers. Sorry, Nat, but this isn’t a one-off. It’s serious. I know what I’m seeing. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Natasha said.
She knew women fancied James. But he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Maybe Emma had had a drink, was seeing things. Or maybe *she’d* missed the warning signs.
“I’ve only had one drink,” Emma cut in, as if reading her mind. Her voice was steady. “Don’t think I’m stirring trouble out of envy. I care about you *both*. Never once tried to steal him—he’s always been mad about *you*. But I couldn’t stay quiet. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“My date’s a copper. Want me to ask him to dig up dirt on her? Reckon he’d help. I’d *love* to drag that homewrecker by her hair myself. But it’s your call. Just know I wouldn’t let her have him. Blokes like James don’t grow on trees. You’ve got two kids—remember that. So, want the details?”
From anyone else, Natasha might’ve dismissed it. But she trusted Emma. Why would she lie?
“You still there?” Emma pressed.
“Find out,” Natasha said, then tossed the phone like it was to blame.
“Mum!” Oliver called.
“One sec.”
Natasha walked to the kitchen, stood by the window. Her hands shook. James… with another woman. An old film title flashed in her mind—*It Can’t Be True!* But Emma had known him for years. She wouldn’t mistake him.
Natasha clenched her icy fingers. Her chest ached, face burned, yet inside, a sickening chill spread. *Maybe she* did *mistake him? A business meeting? But Emma said it’s serious. James is just a man—could’ve been tempted. Happens all the time. Women always fancied him. Who’d know better than me? What now? Scream, smash plates? Scare the kids? Push him further away? Mistresses thrive on contrast—wife nags, they offer patience, sweetness. So what’s next?*
“Mum, I’m stuck on this problem.” Oliver hovered in the doorway.
“Alright, coming,” Natasha replied flatly, not turning.
Oliver lingered, then left.
Natasha returned, forced herself to focus on his homework. By the time James got home, she’d pulled herself together, greeted him with a smile.
“Shall I heat up dinner?”
“Nah, had coffee at work. Knackered. Shower, then bed.”
Natasha put Emily to bed, then sat at the kitchen table sipping tea, thinking, thinking…
James was already asleep when she slipped in beside him. Dawn crept in before she finally dozed off. Who could sleep after news like that?
Morning brought a throbbing head, gritty eyes. She made breakfast, roused Emily. James got up on his own, fresh-faced, wolfing down his toast.
“Can you drop Emily at nursery? I’m not feeling great,” Natasha asked.
“’Course. Get some rest—late shift today, yeah?” He always remembered—birthdays, anniversaries, her rota. Normal morning. Everything as usual. Yet nothing the same.
“Not working late tonight? You’ll pick Emily up?” Natasha reminded.
“Yeah, ’course. Didn’t need the reminder,” James called from the hallway.
The next day, Natasha stopped by her mum’s after work. She needed to talk, get advice.
“What do I do, Mum?”
“Dunno, love. When your dad strayed, I threw a fit—screamed, chucked things… Didn’t even need to follow him. Whole town knew before I did. Went ’round hers, smashed the place up. Nearly brained her with a stool. Your dad walked in, stopped me.”
Natasha stared.
“Surprised? Felt shame after. Heat of the moment, you do mad things. Your dad said he couldn’t live with me after that. Left. I cried for days, wanted to die. Then he came back. I turned him away.”
“Ever regret not forgiving him?”
“At first, no—hard as it was. But I had you. You’ve got two—Oliver needs his dad. Later… yeah, I regretted it. None of us were happy—not me, not him, not her. He stayed with her ’cause he’d nowhere else, till he died. Your choice, love. You’re the one living it. Fight for James if you love him. Life teaches you—loneliness is cruel.”
Two days later, Emma visited the clinic. She’d gotten the other woman’s address.
“So it’s true,” Natasha said bitterly, taking the slip of paper.
“You *doubted* me? I’d never lie. What’ll you do?”
“What would *you* do?”
“Oh, I’d make her *regret*—listen, you’ve got arsenic, right? Spike her tea, let her suffer. Or acid in the face—see how many blokesShe never went to that address again, and somehow, life went on—though every glance at James now carried the weight of what she knew, unspoken but never forgotten.
