The message arrived on an ordinary Thursday evening, right as I was chopping greens for dinner.
Igor’s phone lay on the kitchen table — as usual, forgotten by him when he went to take a shower.
The screen lit up, and the notification flashed so brightly it seemed determined to catch my eye.
“Igoryok, I can’t wait for our celebration! I already bought a dress. You promised the evening would be unforgettable.”
I froze with the knife in my hand.
“Igoryok.”
That was what I called my husband many years ago… and now someone else was using that tender nickname.
My heart ached sharply.
But unlike the story that another woman in my place might have lived through, mine went down a different path.
I put the knife aside, wiped my hands on my apron, and glanced at the phone.
I knew the password — our wedding date.
But strangely, I didn’t want to type it in.
The unease lingered, though.
Questions swirled in my mind.
Could it be a mistake? Spam? A wrong number?
It sounded too intimate for that.
The water in the bathroom kept running.
I took a deep breath, stepped away from the phone, and forced myself to return to the salad.
Let it all be explained when Igor came out.
I had learned long ago: before doubting, you must hear a person out.
A minute later he appeared in the doorway — in a bathrobe, hair damp, wearing the same smile that hadn’t changed in thirty years.
“Marina, what’s wrong?” he asked. “You look tense.”
I was silent for a second, then finally said:
“You got a message. A strange one.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, stepped to the table, picked up the phone, saw the notification…
And his face stretched in genuine bewilderment.
“Oh—” he exhaled and then… laughed.
Quietly, confused, but completely sincerely.
“Marina, this is not what you think.”
“Really?” I asked dryly.
He came closer, wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“It’s from Kristina… the wife of my colleague Denis. I told you — we’re planning a surprise for his fifty-year birthday. They want to renew their wedding ceremony, recreate the evening as if they were getting married again. And I’m handling the restaurant because Denis is hopeless — he’s terrified he’ll mess something up.
And Kristina decided I’m the one who should pass along her wishes for the celebration to him. So she keeps ‘attacking’ me with messages.”
I blinked.
His explanation sounded logical… too logical to be fabricated.
I could see how lost he was, how embarrassed he felt for being dragged into someone else’s romantic plans.
“And ‘Igoryok’?” I asked.
He chuckled.
“She calls everyone by diminutives. Denis is ‘Denyochka.’ The dog is ‘Pushichka.’ I’m serious. That’s just her style.”
I felt the tension gradually fade.
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“I was going to tell you over dinner,” he kissed my temple.
“I already planned everything. You know Denis — he’s a great guy, just shy. And his wife dreams of a celebration. I wanted to help.”
I exhaled.
At that moment, I believed him.
Because after thirty years with Igor, I could always tell the difference between his truth and his attempts to wriggle out of something.
And this — was truth.
But to chase away the last bits of doubt, I asked:
“What kind of evening are they planning?”
“A wedding-themed one, like twenty years ago. She wants him to redo his proposal. The old dress is too small now, so she bought a new one…” he grimaced.
“Yeah, I admit, it sounds odd. But not our problem.”
We both laughed.
And half an hour later he suddenly said:
“Marina… I realized something. You thought I was…” he lowered his eyes. “And I don’t ever want you to doubt me.
So I booked a table… for us too. On New Year’s Eve. At Panoráma.
I wanted to surprise you.”
I froze.
“For us?”
“Yes. I’ve been promising for years. And it’s time to keep my word.
Maybe I’m not the most romantic man, but sometimes I can manage something.”
He shrugged, but his gaze was tender, sad, a little guilty.
My eyes stung.
“Igor…” was all I could manage.
“I had no idea…”
“How could you know? I was hiding it. That’s how surprises work,” he smiled.
“And now I ruined everything by leaving my phone lying around.”
I laughed through tears.
That night, we talked for hours.
About life.
About habits.
About how sometimes we stop surprising each other simply because we treat the relationship as something permanent and reliable, like the walls of a house.
But even a house needs repairs from time to time.
The next day I called our daughter.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “we want to spend New Year’s Eve just the two of us. Can we come by on the first?”
Nastya happily agreed.
She always knew: when Mom and Dad were together — everything was fine.
On December 31st, Igor and I hid gifts from each other, he nervously adjusted his tie, and I fussed over my hairstyle — something I hadn’t done carefully in years.
At the restaurant they seated us by a window overlooking the city.
Snowflakes dotted the glass, cars below looked like tiny beads.
“You know, Marisha…” Igor took my hand.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened in my life. And no colleague’s celebration will stand in the way of that.”
“And you’re my best thing,” I smiled.
We raised our glasses, and I felt warm tenderness rise inside me.
I didn’t think about the past.
Didn’t recall the anxiety.
Because in that moment we looked at each other the way we had thirty years ago — when we rented a tiny room, dreamed of having a daughter, and built plans for the future.
We laughed, reminisced, danced to old songs.
And for the first time in many years, I understood:
love can get tired, can argue, can stumble.
But if the love is real — it can be repaired, warmed, saved.
We returned home near dawn — tired, happy, with a bag of gifts and the feeling that something new awaited us.
As I lay down to sleep, Igor hugged me and said quietly:
“Thank you for believing me.”
And I answered just as softly:
“Thank you for giving me a reason to believe.”
And that truly was the best New Year’s Eve of my life.
No doubt about it.