Jane married for love, believing it would last forever. Everything was like a dream: a white limousine adorned with rings and fluttering ribbons, a lavish restaurant, doves soaring into the azure sky, a dress by a renowned designer, and fireworks lighting up the night…
A future filled with pure happiness…
And it truly was blissful… for five whole years.
Then Andrew dropped the bombshell: those weren’t his dreams, their marriage was suffocating him, their family life was nothing but routine, and, oh, by the way, he was expecting a child… elsewhere.
Jane was floored. Wasn’t it her darling husband who’d insisted on a life free of midnight baby cries? Wasn’t Andrew the one who’d repeatedly declared their motto—“the first ten years are for us!”? Yet here he was, packing his suitcase, spitting on that freedom! And nothing was suffocating him anymore.
Nor was it routine.
Jane couldn’t fathom how her family could vanish just like that. The suitcase zippers whispered shut, the front door’s lock clicked loudly, and—poof—her family was gone. She cried, of course. Gulped down medicinal drops from a special shot glass…
And more than once, after downing the prescribed fifteen drops, she’d forget and pour another fifteen…
She even took two weeks of unpaid leave in the middle of quarterly reports, despite her boss’s grumbling. She needed to wallow in her depression, sob into her pillow, and piece herself back together from the shards.
Andrew didn’t linger to comfort her. He left—and that was that. Said she was a strong girl, she’d manage, she’d bulldoze any obstacle in her path. Or if not, she’d trample them. If only he had her strength! He, meanwhile, faced sleepless nights with diapers and onesies, while Jane got freedom—no worries, plus a nearly downtown apartment. Andrew “nobly” left her the apartment. Very noble, indeed! Considering eighty percent of it was hers—she’d sold her old Khrushchev-era flat and added her pre-marriage savings to buy their new home. Andrew’s contribution? A small loan, since his job and income weren’t exactly thriving back then.
After the wedding, the young couple moved into the new apartment, planning to travel extensively and save for a bigger place over the next decade. Well, they saved alright! Andrew’s career took off so well that within five years, he and Jane bought a spacious three-bedroom in a premium residential complex. And now Andrew claimed it for himself, saying the two-bedroom was enough for Jane. The three-bedroom? He needed it more—because he had a family. Never mind that the paperwork was in his name.
— But we could’ve had a family, Andrew! You were the one who…
— Well, with us it was “could’ve,” but over there, it already is.
So Jane spent the second week rubbing her red, swollen nose, wiping away tears, and sipping drops from her medicinal shot glass. She tried to convince herself to forgive her treacherous husband, while her imagination conjured vicious scenes of punishing the unfaithful jerk. She grieved that she’d never get a second chance to do things right, to avoid the mistakes and the breakup. But grieve or not, life had to go on…
They say time heals. And they’re not wrong. For Jane, time was the best medicine. So was crafting. She bought Czech beads, sequins, gold threads, and ordered a pack of brooch fittings from AliExpress. She’d always wanted to make insect-shaped brooches, and now she dove in. Nights and weekends, she embroidered butterflies, moths, dragonflies, spiders. Her glossy black beaded spiders were especially popular. People started inquiring, placing orders. Then Jane tripled her prices—she couldn’t keep up. But, defying logic, demand surged. Her hyper-realistic bugs and spiders sold like hotcakes, and hundreds of followers flocked to her online pages. Sure, she wouldn’t make a fortune on bugs and spiders, but the extra cash kept rolling in. It became a nice side hustle to her main job, and post-divorce, Jane started treating herself to luxuries she’d never allowed before. After all, she used to squirrel away every penny to buy that spacious apartment with her husband…
They bought it, damn that apartment! Her ex-husband moved his new family into it. But Jane? She’d live for herself now. This week, she’d buy a gym membership, spa sessions, and massages. In May, she’d take two weeks off and jet off to Madrid. She could soak up the sun, admire the stunning architecture, and savor Spanish cuisine.
Jane returned from Madrid looking radiant, refreshed, and tanned. At work, compliments poured in. They’d always complimented her, but now they were relentless. One sunny July weekend, Jane stopped by an ice cream stand to grab a fruity scoop—perfect for the summer heat. Ahead of her, a nitpicky customer was badgering the exhausted vendor about ice cream flavors.
— Tell me, is this vanilla one different from that one? Which is sweeter?
Jane was tempted to “accidentally” step hard on the guy’s bare toes in his worn sandals. Finally, after tormenting the vendor, he bought the cheapest vanilla wafer cone.
“Cheapskate and a bore!” Jane thought, grabbing her fruity scoop.
Then the clumsy customer flailed his arm, dropping his vanilla cone right onto Jane’s silk sundress, bought in Madrid. She nearly dropped her own ice cream in shock. What a mess! The man erupted in apologies, flashing a guilty smile, wringing his hands, practically ready to kneel on the hot, dusty pavement.
Jane noticed his striking blue eyes and dazzling smile. He didn’t seem that boring anymore—actually, quite charming. He casually mentioned he hadn’t enjoyed his ice cream and couldn’t buy another: no cash, and he’d forgotten his card. Jane forgave the klutz and even bought him a second cone—a big one with raspberry jam.
— Here, this is for you! If you’re going to indulge, do it properly!
— Oh, I’m so embarrassed! You must tell me where to repay you. And we absolutely have to get acquainted! I’m Ian.
Jane looked at him—and yeah, he was an Ian. Wheat-blond curls, blue eyes, broad shoulders, tanned arms.
— Don’t worry, Ian. Next time, you treat me to ice cream, and we’re square. I’m Jane, — she said with a carefree wave and a smile.
— Deal! — Ian jumped at the idea. — I’m holding you to it. Jane… beautiful name!
They strolled through the park and city for hours, after sitting in a café. Jane had to pop into the restroom to scrub the vanilla stain off her sundress. Then they sipped mojitos from tall, frosty glasses. Ian kept apologizing and thanking her for treating him. They clicked instantly. They could talk about anything. Ian was well-read, erudite, a match for Jane. Finally, she could speak freely, use niche terms, touch on any topic, and he got it—no need to explain.
At night, Ian texted her on Telegram, or they’d chat for hours on Skype…
Jane shared that she’d recently divorced. Well, a year and a half ago—hardly recent, right? It felt like yesterday. She’d suffered for a long time, then learned to live without her ex. Eventually, she found joy in it, discovering herself through her art…
Ian revealed he’d been married, but it didn’t work out. Divorced. His wife wanted palaces, yachts, and diamonds, but his old Khrushchev flat and beat-up Lada weren’t enough. And honestly, who’d be satisfied with that?
What could he do when research institute scientists in this country are paid so little?
Jane reassured him there was no shame in living in a Khrushchev—she’d lived in one too. And scientists sometimes become lab heads or institute directors…
Plenty of people would kill to be in his shoes, with far less than he had. He was doing great!
— Thanks for the support… You’re the only one who gets me, — Ian said, touched. — My ex always nagged me for not earning enough. I gave her every penny, while I ran around half-starved like a stray mutt… Moonlit as a driver at night to save for her damn mink coat. Days in the lab, nights and weekends behind the wheel…
Ian sighed about his debts. He couldn’t even afford an extra ice cream because the divorce left him broke, still paying off a loan. Jane started cutting off his constant complaints about life and his ex-wife. If they were building a relationship, they should focus on them, not someone from the past. Like her ex, Andrew. When she and Ian grabbed a bite at a café, Jane usually covered the bill. Ian might order just a coffee and pay for himself, but she’d handle her order. Noticing his worn sandals, clumsily stitched with mismatched thread—probably his own repair job—Jane gifted him a sharp pair of sneakers. He hesitated, embarrassed, but Jane insisted it was a gift. Ian accepted, beaming like a kid, even sniffing the fresh leather, raving about its scent. Soon, they moved in together. Ian was five years younger, though…
It bothered Jane a bit, but only at first. She got over it. After all, she looked at least five years younger—maybe seven. After the sneakers, bigger gifts followed. Their institute’s director had a jubilee, and when Jane saw what Ian planned to wear, she went out and bought him a suit. Yes, pricey. But cheap looks cheap! She wanted her man to look top-notch. The suit needed a shirt—his old ones were frayed, fit only for yard work, not a jubilee. A Lacoste leather belt sealed the look. And, naturally, leather shoes—sneakers wouldn’t do. Each time, Ian shyly thanked Jane, kissing her hands fervently. She was the one buying him gifts. Well, she sometimes forgot to call them gifts: they were just routine necessities for her man.
Jane started thinking more often that he’d soon be her husband! They lived together, shared a household—essentially a family. They had a tangible future as a family! At the director’s jubilee, Ian was the best-looking man, and many female colleagues saw him in a new light. Under his faded plaid shirts and blue lab coat, a total heartthrob was hiding! Every woman wanted a dance with him that night, even their stern chief accountant, Patricia. Ian didn’t invite Jane, though—it was a small, institute-only event. But he recounted every detail when he got home and showed her photos on the director’s social media page. He thanked Jane again for her amazing gifts, which made him look like a wealthy businessman.
Jane was proud of Ian. He truly looked like a successful, polished man.
Then, out of nowhere, Ian’s director suffered a stroke. The old man was promptly retired, given a basket of flowers, and a new leader was appointed. The higher-ups decided Ian was the best candidate, and the team agreed. A Ph.D., a brilliant scientist with tons of publications, and he looked the part—sleek, like a seasoned director. They held a meeting, signed the paperwork, and Ian stepped into his new role.
— See, I told you, even regular scientists become lab heads… and directors!
Ian grabbed Jane and spun her in his arms:
— You’re my fairy godmother! You bring me luck! Everything’s been uphill since you came into my life! I love you so much, — he twirled her, and she closed her eyes, imagining herself in a wedding dress, with a white limousine and doves soaring…
What can you do? Jane loved those kinds of weddings, with doves… and fireworks.
As a director, Ian had to uphold a certain image. Showing up to the institute from the subway? Embarrassing! What about public respect?
— I really need a car, it’s practically a disgrace otherwise… But I’m still paying off that old loan… I’ll earn more now, so I’ll save up faster, — Ian mumbled, looking guilty.
He’d apologize for bringing up such a big expense… then say he couldn’t possibly accept money from Jane, since he was already living in her home on her dime… then stress how badly he needed a car and swear he’d pay her back, just later—he wasn’t some creep who’d screw her over…
Jane didn’t doubt her almost-husband would repay the money she’d lend him for the car. Her savings wouldn’t vanish; he’d pay her back eventually, and she’d redeposit it all. She’d buy her own car too—just a bit later than planned…
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