I was his mistress for three years, and I thought I was special. Then I saw his wife—and I finally got it. He used to say she didn’t understand him. They always say that, I know. But when you’re twenty-six and a man—older, handsome, smelling of expensive cologne—looks you in the eye and says, «You’re the only one I can truly be myself with,» you don’t think about how everyone says that.
You think: I’m special. He chose me.
Dima. Forty-one. A department head at a construction firm. Tall, with silver at his temples—that early, attractive gray that makes men look more interesting. Large, confident hands. A low, steady voice. When he spoke, I just wanted to close my eyes and listen. It didn’t matter what he was talking about—even concrete slabs.
We met at a conference. I was a junior analyst, three months into the job, wearing new shoes that were giving me blisters. He was a speaker: suit, confidence, charisma. After his presentation, he walked up to me and said, «Want to grab a coffee?» Of course, I said yes.
Over coffee, he told me about his work, his projects, his plans. I listened, nodded, and laughed at his jokes. During the second coffee break, he went quiet, looked at me, and said: «I’m married. I felt I should tell you that upfront.»
And I—stupid, naive, twenty-six-year-old me—valued that. I saw it as honesty. Integrity. He wasn’t hiding it, which meant he respected me.
«Things are complicated with my wife,» he said. «We haven’t really been together for a long time. Formally, yes. But in reality, we’re just roommates. We stay together for the kids.»
The kids. Two of them. A boy and a girl. He showed me a photo on his phone—quickly, just for a second. Beautiful, blonde children. I didn’t memorize their faces—I didn’t want to.
«I’m not asking for anything from you,» he said. «It’s just… I really like you. A lot.»
I said, «I like you, too.» And that’s how it all started.
Three years is a long time. It’s not just a fling, a random mistake, or a one-time thing that «doesn’t count.» Three years is a habit. It’s feelings. It’s a lot of time spent together.
Tuesdays and Thursdays were our days. He would come over after work around seven. We’d have dinner—I’d cook, I’d try so hard. We’d talk—he’d speak, I’d listen. Then he’d stay until ten. Sometimes eleven.
«I have to go. My wife will be calling.»
His wife. He called her «my wife»—never by her name. He never uttered her name once. It was as if by not naming her, she didn’t exist. As if without a name, she was just an abstraction, a prop, an obstacle. Not a person.
And I didn’t care either. I never once asked, «What’s her name?» I didn’t want to know. As long as she was just «the wife,» without a face or a name, it was easier. Easier not to think. Easier not to feel guilty. Easier to be «special.»
Because that’s what he told me—that I was special. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I was special. With her, it was duty, routine, «for the kids.» With me, it was life. Real life. Vibrant life.
«You’re the only person I can be myself with,» he’d say. «With her, I’m a husband, a father, a provider. With you, I’m the real me.»
And I believed him. For three years, I believed him. For three years, I waited for Tuesdays and Thursdays. For three years, I fell asleep alone and woke up alone—and in between were those two evenings a week when I wasn’t alone. When he was right there—big, warm, smelling of expensive cologne.
I didn’t think about her. Intentionally, with great effort, I blocked her out. But sometimes, something would break through. He’d call her while he was with me—short, businesslike. «Yeah, I’ll be late. A meeting. No, not too late. Love you.»
Love you.
He said «love you» to her—and a minute later, he kissed me. The same lips. Two «love yous.» One was the truth; the other was a lie. I believed the truth belonged to me.
Once, I saw a notification on his phone. He was in the shower, and the phone was on the nightstand. The screen lit up: «Don’t forget to buy milk. And bread. Love you.»
Milk and bread… She was asking him to buy milk and bread. Such mundane, domestic words—and they made me feel sick. Because milk and bread aren’t for a «wife-abstraction.» They belong to a living person; someone is waiting at home, someone will drink tea with that milk in the morning, someone will butter that bread. Someone writes «love you»—and waits.
It was convenient for me to see myself as the victim. It’s important to be honest about that. It was convenient.
I was young, single, in love. He was married, unhappy, «trapped.» She was cold, boring, «didn’t understand him.» A triangle where I was the apex. The best part. The most alive.
My friend Sveta knew. She was the only one. I didn’t tell anyone else—I was ashamed. Но I told Sveta during that first month when I still couldn’t keep it inside.
«Sveta, he’s married.»
«Great…» Sveta said. «And?»
«He says things with his wife are just a formality. That they’re like roommates.»
«They all say that.»
«He’s different.»
«They’re all ‘different.'»
Sveta didn’t approve. She didn’t judge me—but she didn’t approve. There’s a difference: judgment is when someone says, «You’re a bad person.» Disapproval is when they stay silent, but you can feel it.
For three years, she stayed silent. Not about everything—just about this. We still hung out, grabbed coffee, went to the movies. But Dima was taboo. I didn’t talk about him; she didn’t ask. A wall went up between us—thin as glass. We both pretended it wasn’t there.
In three years, I never saw his wife. I didn’t know what she looked like. I didn’t know her name, her age, or what she did for a living. I didn’t know if she was blonde or brunette, tall or short, thin or curvy. He never told me, and I never asked. It was a silent agreement: she didn’t exist. In our world, there were only the two of us.
Of course, I imagined her. At night, after he left and I was alone with a cold pillow, I imagined her. Gray-haired, tired, in a bathrobe and slippers. A dull gaze, thin lips. A woman who had stopped being a woman. Someone who had become furniture in his life. A woman he didn’t love—and rightly so, because how could anyone love her? Gray, boring, in slippers.
I needed to think of her that way. Because if she were vibrant, alive, beautiful—then who was I? Then I wasn’t «the one he chose.» Then I was just «the one he has fun with on Tuesdays and Thursdays before going back to the real one.»
I saw her in March. By accident—truly by accident, no planning, no stalking.
Saturday, a shopping mall, the escalator. I was going up, and on the down escalator, I saw Dima. He was with the kids—the same boy and girl from that old photo, just older now. The boy was about twelve, wearing headphones. The girl was about nine, holding her father’s hand. And standing next to them was a woman.
His wife.
I didn’t recognize her first; I recognized him. His hand was on her shoulder. It was a gesture—familiar, effortless, not for show. A hand on the shoulder, fingers squeezing slightly—the kind of gesture people make when they are truly close, when you belong to each other, when you don’t have to think about it because it’s natural.
He never put his hand on my shoulder like that. With me, it was always my waist. With her, it was her shoulder. I felt the difference instantly, and it hit me harder than anything else.
The escalator carried me up while it carried them down. Three seconds—I only saw them for three seconds. But it was enough.
She wasn’t gray. She wasn’t tired. She was… normal. Ordinary. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. A jacket, jeans, sneakers. No makeup—or the kind you can’t see. Her face was alive, expressive. She was saying something to her daughter—leaning down, smiling, fixing her scarf. And the girl was laughing.
And she was laughing, too. His wife was laughing at something their daughter said. And Dima—my Dima—was looking at them and smiling, too. Not at me. Not for me. He didn’t see me. He was smiling at his daughter and his wife. It was that smile you only have at home: warm, tired, and real.
Three seconds. The escalator took them down and me up. I froze at the top, by a shoe store window, unable to move.
Because in those three seconds, I saw exactly what I had been hiding from myself for three years.
He wasn’t unhappy. He wasn’t «just a roommate» to her. He wasn’t «married only on paper.» He was a husband, a father—a man who put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and smiled at his daughter. A man spending his Saturday at the mall with his family, the very same Saturday I sat home alone, waiting for Tuesday.
And she wasn’t some gray, drab ghost. She wasn’t boring. She wasn’t a piece of furniture. She was a vibrant woman who laughed, who adjusted her daughter’s scarf, who wore sneakers instead of slippers. She was the woman who would drink tea that night with the milk he bought on his way home. The woman who would text «love you»—and he would text it back. Because she wasn’t an abstraction. She was his life. His real life.
And me? I was Tuesday and Thursday. Two nights out of seven. Two nights, after which he drove home—to her, to the kids.
I went back to my apartment and sat in the kitchen. I felt the floor drop out from under me—not a sudden crash, but a slow sinking, like a ship going down. Gradual and relentless.
Three years…
For three years, I called myself «special.» But I was just a schedule. Tuesday-Thursday. Like a gym workout. Like a cleaning routine. Like preventative maintenance—done regularly and on plan to keep him in shape.
He didn’t need me as a woman, or as «the one.» He needed me as a pressure valve. A room where he could take off his suit jacket, relax, and feel twenty-five again—before returning to his real life.
And what about me? I waited. For three years, I waited for him to leave her. For him to choose me. For the «formalities» to end so the «real thing» could begin. Every Tuesday, I asked him—not with words, but with my eyes: Well? When?
And every Tuesday, he answered—not with words, but with a kiss on the forehead: Wait. Soon. When the kids are older. Everything will change.
Nothing changed. Three years—nothing. Except I got older. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Three years I could have lived differently. With someone who was entirely mine—not a man on a timetable, not someone who says, «I have to go, my wife is calling.»
He showed up on Tuesday. Just like always—around seven. Flowers, wine, a smile.
«Hey, gorgeous. Miss me?»
I looked at him and saw a different person. Not the man I’d seen for three years. Not «the man who chose me.» I saw a man who didn’t choose anything at all. A man who just took everything. The wife, the kids, the home, the stability—and me on top of it. Like a bonus. Like dessert after the main course.
«Dima,» I said. «Sit down.»
He sat. I could see the caution creep into his face.
«I saw your wife. Saturday. At the mall.»
He didn’t turn pale. He didn’t flinch. He just went still—like an animal sensing danger, deciding whether to bolt or freeze.
«And?» he asked calmly.
«And you put your hand on her shoulder. You never did that with me. With me, it was always my waist, like a mistress. With her, it was her shoulder—like a wife.»
«Masha, that’s just a habit, I didn’t—»
«She was laughing, Dima. Laughing. For three years, you told me she was burnt out, boring, that there was a wall between you. She isn’t burnt out. She’s alive. She’s normal. She was fixing her daughter’s scarf and laughing. And you just stood there smiling.»
«Masha…»
«You aren’t an unhappy husband, Dima. You’re a happy one. You’re just greedy. One life isn’t enough for you. You need two. One with her—the real one, with the milk and the bread. And another with me—on Tuesdays, so you can feel young. I’m your gym. I’m your ego-machine.»
«That’s not true.»
«Then what is? Three years, Dima. Three years you came here twice a week, told me I was special—and then you went home. To your wife. To your kids. To your real life. And I stayed here. Alone. In an apartment that smelled like you two nights a week and like emptiness the other five.»
He was silent. He didn’t argue, didn’t make excuses, didn’t say, «I’ll leave her, I promise.» And in that silence was everything I needed to know. He was silent because there was nothing left to say. Because I was right. Because he was never going to leave. Because he had it good. With both of us.
«Leave,» I said.
«Masha, let’s talk—»
«Leave, Dima. And don’t ever come back. Never.»
He left. He left the flowers and the wine on the table. I threw them straight into the trash, packaging and all. Out of pure spite.
And then I cried. Not for him—for myself. For the twenty-six-year-old girl who believed him. For the three years that vanished into someone else’s schedule. For all those Tuesdays and Thursdays that could have been mine—truly mine, with someone who doesn’t head home to his wife at ten o’clock.
He called. The next day, and the day after, and then a week later. Texts: «Masha, I need you.» «Masha, let’s talk.» «Masha, I can’t do this without you.»
I didn’t answer. Not a single call, not a single text. I blocked him a month later when I realized that every notification was a hook I might still bite. It was better to just remove the hook.
I told Sveta two months later. I went to her place, sat in her kitchen, and told her everything. About the escalator, the hand on the shoulder, the scarf, the laughter.
Sveta listened in silence. She didn’t say, «I warned you.» She didn’t say, «It’s your own fault.» She just listened and poured the tea.
«You know what the worst part is?» I asked. «It’s not that he lied. Everyone lies. The worst part is something else. For three years, I hated a woman I didn’t even know. I invented her—gray, boring, in slippers. I turned her into cardboard so I wouldn’t have to feel guilty. But she’s real. She’s me ten years from now.»
«What do you mean?»
«She’s just another woman. A woman who loves her husband. Who waits for him in the evening. Who texts, ‘Buy milk, love you.’ And instead of getting the milk, he comes to me. While she sits at home with the kids thinking—meeting, traffic, he’s just running late. And she believes him. Exactly the way I believed I was special.»
Sveta was quiet for a moment. Then she said, «It’s not your fault.»
«It is my fault. Not for falling in love. But for allowing myself not to think for three years. Not to think about her. Not to think about the kids. To think only about myself—about being ‘special,’ about my own feelings. It was selfish. A beautiful, romantic kind of selfishness with wine and flowers—but selfishness all the same.»
«And his, too.»
«And his, too. But his part isn’t mine to answer for. My part is.»
