It so happened that I urgently needed surgery, and I ended up in the hospital. At home, I left my husband and our dog. My husband and I have been together for a long time, and as they say, we live in perfect harmony. We’ve known each other since school, studied in parallel classes, went to the same summer camp, and in high school, we got close at a school dance. We started hanging out, going for walks, and later I waited for him to return from the army. He became my first love and the father of my children. In short, our relationship developed in a classic way, and as far as I was concerned, it was so solid that no catastrophe could break it apart. I was absolutely certain of my husband.
My surgery went well. While I was recovering from all the challenges related to the operation, my husband called me every day and visited whenever I needed something or just to see me. It was clear he was worried about me. And I, of course, worried about him—how was he managing? He was used to having everything done for him, and now he had to buy groceries and cook for himself. Before going to the hospital, though, we went to the store together and bought everything he could possibly need so he’d only have to cook.
“Don’t worry,” he told me. “I’ll boil some dumplings, buy some sour cream, I won’t starve. You just focus on getting better, treat everything properly so you don’t end up back on the operating table.”
Eventually, the day came when I was discharged from the hospital. It turned out that the doctor planned to release me on Tuesday, but I was discharged on Friday instead. I needed two more injections, but I could handle those myself.
“Alright,” the doctor said. “If you can manage on your own, go ahead. Finish your treatment at home, rest, and come back to see me on Wednesday. We’ll decide what to do next.”
Thrilled that I was finally going home, I called my husband to come pick me up, but he didn’t answer.
“Well,” I thought, “maybe he’s at work or in the garage, didn’t hear the phone, or forgot it at home…”
So, I called a taxi.
I got home, slowly climbed up to our second-floor apartment, opened the door, and heard voices—male and female. Who could the woman be? Probably the TV, I thought. But why was it coming from the bedroom? Questions swirled in my head as I walked toward our bedroom. I opened the door, and there, on our bed, was my husband, lying in the arms of our naked downstairs neighbor, Laura, a woman I despised.
“What the hell is this?!” I exclaimed, staring at them cuddling. Laura vanished from our bed like she’d been blown away by a gust of wind.
Lucky for her, I was fresh out of surgery and had no strength, or she’d have been flying off the second floor in no time. My husband went pale.
“Alright,” I said. “Get to the living room and sleep on the couch. I’ll decide how to deal with you later. For now, I need to lie down.”
My husband silently retreated to the couch, and I sat on the bed and burst into tears.
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