The Documents in the Snow
It was minus fifteen degrees. The snow crunched underfoot, the air sliced into my lungs like shards of glass. This dacha was fifty kilometers from the city—no neighbors, no transport, no cell service. The perfect place to dispose of a wife.
I stood there in an old jacket, clutching a folder of documents in my hands, silently watching my husband hurriedly unload a bundle of damp firewood and a sack of grain from the trunk of his black SUV. He did everything quickly, nervously—as if he were afraid to stay near me even one minute longer.
“Here are clothes and food for a week,” he said, throwing a plastic bag onto the snow-covered porch. “I’m flying off on vacation with Irina, and I’m taking the children with me.”
The children were sitting in the back seat. Misha, nine years old, and Katya, seven. They didn’t look at me. Everything had already been explained to them—in his own way. Probably that Mama needed time alone. Probably that Mama was tired and needed rest. Certainly not that Papa was abandoning her in the middle of winter at a remote house with no way to leave.
“I changed the locks in the apartment!” Dmitry shouted from the driver’s seat, his face red with something that might have been guilt or anger or both. “You won’t be able to come home anymore! This is your home now!”
He slammed the door shut. The SUV lurched forward, wheels spinning in the loose snow, sending up white clouds. The car slowly disappeared around the bend between the pines, leaving behind only tire tracks and the smell of exhaust.
I stood there in the brutal cold, watching until the red taillights vanished completely. Then I looked down at the folder in my hands—the one Dmitry thought contained my identification documents, my passport, the deed to this old dacha.
And I smiled.
Because my husband and his mistress had no idea what kind of surprise awaited them at the airport.
The Life Before
My name is Marina Volkov. I’m thirty-four years old, and until three days ago, I believed I had a decent marriage. Not perfect, certainly—Dmitry worked long hours as a regional sales manager for a pharmaceutical company, traveled frequently, came home exhausted. But we had two beautiful children, a comfortable apartment in Moscow, a routine that felt stable if not particularly exciting.
The story doesn’t end here – it continues on the next page.
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