Helen had planned their seventh anniversary with great care. She wanted that night to be special, for Ale to feel loved, appreciated, to remember how much they had built together.
She had decorated the house with warm lights and elegant candles. The scent of fresh flowers filled the air, and the tables were impeccably set with linen cloths and crystal glasses. She had chosen a navy-blue dress, elegant and cinched at the waist, with her hair tied in a loose bun. She looked radiant, excited.
The guests began to arrive—close friends, colleagues, family members who hugged her with cheerful smiles. Soft music floated in the background, and wine glasses clinked with every toast as they waited for the host.
But Alex didn't show up.
Helen tried calling him several times. At first patiently, then with rising anxiety. The phone rang, but he didn't answer. She called again. This time, the call was declined. That morning, he had promised to be home early.
—Alex, remember today is important to me… to us. I need you here early.
—I know, Helen. I promise, I'll be there.
—Luke is excited too. He's been asking about you all week.
—Don't worry. I'll be there early.
—This time, I don't want excuses.
—There won't be.
—I love you.
He paused for a few seconds.
—I love you too.
A few people asked about him. She took deep breaths and forced a smile.
—He must be on his way,—she replied, hiding the growing unease spreading through her chest like poison.
Hours passed. Conversations turned awkward, the guests' glances filled with pity. Some tried to lift her spirits with kind words; others just looked away.
—Mom… Where's Dad?— Luke asked, his little voice full of innocence.
Helen froze. She swallowed hard, but no words came. Her son kept staring at her with wide, expectant eyes, waiting for an answer she didn't have.
—Daddy… Daddy will be here soon, sweetheart,—she whispered, stroking his hair with a trembling smile.
One by one, the guests began to leave, murmuring words of encouragement.
"Something must've come up." "Don't worry, he's probably busy." "We'll talk soon." But their faces said otherwise—sadness, disappointment, maybe even secondhand shame.
But they all knew the truth.
When the last person stepped out and the house dimmed into shadows, Helen felt the weight of reality fall on her. She stood still for a moment, listening to the fading echoes of goodbyes and laughter that vanished down the street. Inside her, the sense of emptiness grew like a creeping shadow.
She took off her heels clumsily, her legs weak, as though all the effort to hold herself together had drained her. The cold floor reminded her how alone she was. She walked toward the dining room, where the faint glow of the hanging lamp lit the elegantly set table. The pristine silverware, the wine glasses gleaming under golden light, the floral centerpiece still perfuming the air. Everything remained untouched. The cake still sat there, perfectly decorated, waiting to be cut. But no one had touched it. And most of all, Alex's chair remained empty.
Helen reached out and ran her fingers along the rim of the wine glass she had poured for him. He hadn't even bothered to let her know he wouldn't come. The usual excuses echoed in her mind, each more worn than the last. "Last-minute meeting," "a client needed urgent advice," "traffic was horrible." Lies masked as routine.
She let out a heavy sigh and turned off the dining room light. She climbed the stairs slowly, dragging her feet. The echo of her own steps felt unbearably lonely. Each stair creaked beneath her weight, as if the entire house shared in her disappointment.
At the bedroom door, she stood still, staring at the bed in the dim light. She let herself fall gently onto the mattress without bothering to adjust. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling, following the moon-cast shadows through the window. The silence roared in her ears, louder than any noise.
She ran a hand over her face, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. She wondered how much longer she could endure this—how much longer she had to pretend everything was fine. Alex was no longer the man she had married. Or maybe he had always been this way, and she had taken too long to see it.
She turned onto her side and hugged the pillow, his scent still clinging to the fabric. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come—only the weight of loneliness, growing harder to ignore. Then, her phone buzzed.
For a moment, her heart raced. She sat up quickly and grabbed the phone. Alex? Had he realized his mistake? Was he going to apologize?
But it wasn't a call.
It was a message from Natalie.
An image.
She opened it—and the air caught in her lungs.
Alex kissing Natalie.
He wasn't busy. He wasn't at work. He wasn't stuck in traffic.
He was somewhere else, with another woman, celebrating in a way that shattered her soul.
The phone slipped from her hands and hit the floor.
And with it, her heart broke into pieces.
It was an internal crack, a dull pain that tore through her chest like a fracture in a fragile mirror. Her breathing turned erratic, as though air refused to fill her lungs. Her legs trembled, but she forced herself to stay standing, even though it felt like the ground beneath her was falling apart.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each heartbeat more painful than the last. Her throat tightened, keeping her from screaming, crying, or even breathing normally. A strange chill crawled from the back of her neck down to her fingertips, like ice in her veins.
Her eyes, once bright and full of love, now looked dull—clouded by heartbreak.
A little later, the front door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. Alex stepped across the threshold, his face grim, shoulders slumped, as if guilt itself weighed him down. His pace was slow, like each step brought him closer to an unwelcome truth. The scent of wilting flowers and cold food still lingered, the remnants of a celebration that never happened. The center candle had burned out, leaving hardened wax behind.
Helen was waiting in the living room, standing tall in the elegant dress she had chosen so carefully for this special night. The details of the fabric shimmered under the dim light, but her posture was rigid, tense. Her hands, once adorned with elegant jewelry, were now bare—clenched into small fists. The look she gave him was fierce, though her eyes were wet with tears, makeup streaked by pain. She didn't look sad; her face radiated quiet fury, a rage that had been simmering inside her for hours, maybe days.
The shadows in the room seemed to close in around them, the silence between them thick, heavy—like a blanket cutting them off from the rest of the world.
Alex tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat as if the air itself rejected him. The sound of his uneven breathing filled the empty space, a cruel reminder of what had been lost.
Helen didn't move. She stayed still, watching him approach slowly. But her eyes didn't follow him—they looked down, as if searching the floor for a reason, a trace of regret in his hollow steps.
—Alex,— she said, her voice colder than she intended. —Why? Where were you?— Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but with the storm gathering in her chest.
He swallowed hard, unable to meet her gaze.
—I had work… the meeting ran late.
Helen let out a bitter, dry, gut-wrenching laugh. She turned, picked up her phone from the table, and showed him the screen with a firm hand.
—Work, you say?— Her voice cracked. —Then tell me what this means.
On the screen gleamed the image that had shattered her world: Alex, with Natalie, kissing in a dark corner, holding her like she was his.
He felt his stomach drop to his feet. A knot formed in his throat, and for a second, he wished he could vanish.
—It's not what it looks like…— he muttered, without conviction.
—Don't you dare say that!— Helen hurled the phone to the ground, shattering it into pieces. —Tell me it's not true, Alex! Tell me this is all some sick lie!
He closed his eyes. He wanted to lie, to find an excuse—anything to ease the pain on her face. But he couldn't.
Silence betrayed him.