The Sea and the Choice

“Marinka, your vacation is canceled,” Vova announced over dinner, stretching his lips into a smug smile. He was clearly savoring the moment. “I bought Mom a trip. She’s dreamed of the sea her whole life, you understand? So now she can go instead of you, finally relax. She deserves it.”

Marina slowly lifted her eyes from her plate. She studied her husband for a long moment. She said nothing. Only smiled slightly—not with malice, not mockingly, but with an oddly calm expression.

And it was that smile that made Vova uneasy. He had been ready for a scandal, for screaming, for plates flying in his direction. But instead—silence. And that strange, unreadable smile.

“So… you’re not against it?” he asked again, his voice losing some of its earlier confidence. “Really?”

“No, of course not, dear,” Marina replied sweetly, continuing to eat as if nothing had happened. “If your mom has dreamed of the sea, then let her dream come true. How could it be otherwise?”

Vova was honestly thrown off. Where was this angelic tone coming from? Could it really be this easy? Well, look at that, he thought in relief. Turns out my Marishka is understanding after all.

Three days later, Vera Alexandrovna left for her trip—Turkey, a new swimsuit, a suitcase stuffed to the brim, and a radiant, happy face. She chattered nonstop:

“Look, Marinotchka, how good this hat looks on me! I begged it off our neighbor Tamara and I’m not giving it back—let her be jealous. Vovochka, my dear son, thank you so much! You’re a real man. And you, Marinotchka, don’t get too lonely. Although…”—she giggled—“I bet your conscience will bother you, knowing I’m relaxing at a resort all alone while you’re stuck in this stuffy apartment.”

Her humor was… particular. But Marina only nodded and smiled.

That evening, Vova leisurely sipped beer in front of the TV, enjoying a football match. He felt like a true hero—he’d made his mother happy and avoided a fight at home. This is it, he thought with satisfaction, a mature, calm family life. Everything under control.

And then it began.

The next evening, Marina didn’t come home. Her phone went unanswered. Vova only started to worry around midnight, when he went into the bathroom and noticed her toothbrush was gone. He ran to the closet—half her clothes were missing. From the dressing table, her perfume, creams, and even the new swimsuit she’d bought for vacation had disappeared.

It was as if Marina had never existed.

The next day, a message arrived: “Goodbye, Vovchik. If you can’t give me the sea, then as a beautiful woman, I’ll provide it for myself. So don’t miss me and don’t drink too much—you’re no prize even sober. Marina.”

Below it—a photo. Marina against a backdrop of turquoise water, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a short dress with a daring neckline, and holding a cocktail. Beside her stood a tall, bearded man in a crisp white shirt. Both wore radiant, love-drunk smiles.

Vova stared at the screen in disbelief. Had she run off with some guy? What about their home, their family, their marriage certificate, for heaven’s sake?

For three days, he sat in the apartment and drank. First beer, then vodka, and finally something dark in a plastic bottle—he couldn’t even remember what he’d bought. The TV stayed off. The only sound was the plaintive meowing of the hungry cat, surviving on whatever it could steal from the table while its owner was passed out.

Marina had vanished, as if into thin air.

On the seventh day, Vera Alexandrovna returned—tanned, lively, in sunglasses, carrying a camel-shaped fridge magnet.

“Son, I’m home!” she announced happily. “You wouldn’t believe how wonderful it was! The sea was crystal clear, the food like a restaurant’s. Though I overdid it on grapes and spent a whole day in the room, but what a room! Amazing pool view. By the way, where’s Marinotchka?”

Vova sat slumped in an armchair—unshaven, puffy-faced, in underwear and a faded T-shirt. An empty bottle and a bowl of cold pasta sat in front of him.

“Marinotchka… is at the sea,” he croaked. “She took off with a lover. The day after you left, Mom, she disappeared. Sent me a message—said she left because I didn’t give her the sea. Then a photo… Her with some bearded guy, hugging over cocktails.”

Vera Alexandrovna froze. She stood in silence for a full minute, then exploded:

“What the hell is this nonsense?! And you, you spineless fool, just let your wife run away? Are you a man or what? And who is this bearded clown? Where were you when she was packing her things?”

“Drinking.”

“Of course! Why do I even ask? You were drinking, while she grabbed her things and jetted off to paradise with her boyfriend. No morals, that woman! And you sit here like a dead chicken. Disgrace! Get up right now, go after her, find her!”

“Why, Mom?” Vova gave a crooked smile. “She wrote clearly: ‘Goodbye.’ No options there. Besides… she has everything now—money, a passport, and probably happiness.”

“Oh, Volodya, Volodya… You’re a fool, such a fool. And I’m an old fool too.” Vera Alexandrovna sank onto a stool, staring at the floor. “It’s my fault. I should have bought you and Marina the trip, not me.”

A month passed. Marina never returned.

From her social media photos, Vera Alexandrovna learned that Marina wasn’t in Turkey at all—first Cyprus, then Rome, then Paris. In each photo she was smiling, laughing, posing against the Eiffel Tower in a salmon-colored dress. The bearded man was named Andrei—divorced, a businessman, living in Europe.

Under one picture, Marina had written: “When a woman stops waiting for a miracle from her husband, she finds the miracle herself.”

Soon after, divorce papers arrived. Vova didn’t even read them—he just signed automatically and sent them back.

In the kitchen, Vera Alexandrovna sat, her hair turned completely gray over these weeks, whispering:

“I just wanted my son to be happy… And now he’s alone. All because I wanted the sea, and all we got was loneliness and shame…”

Two more weeks went by. One day, the doorbell rang.

Vova reluctantly opened it. On the doorstep stood Marina—beautiful, well-groomed, wearing a stylish blouse and a soft Mediterranean tan. He could hardly believe his eyes.

“Hi, Vovchik!” she said, stepping inside as if she’d never been gone. “I need to pick up a few things—old photos, documents. You don’t mind?”

He nodded silently. After a moment, he asked:

“Are you… happy with this Andrei?”

“Of course I’m happy. Very happy. But most importantly—he respects me. And you never did.”

“Because I bought that trip for Mom instead of you?”

“No, Vova. Because you always chose your mother over me. Always. With the car, with vacations, even when I asked for a quiet evening together—you still invited your mom to dinner.”

He wanted to argue but couldn’t—because it was all true.

“Do you know why I didn’t throw a fit that day?” she asked with a sly smile. “When you announced my vacation was canceled?”

Vova dropped his gaze. He already knew what she would say.

“Because I realized—if you can’t choose between your wife and your mother, then I’ll choose for you. No shouting, no drama. Like a woman—with dignity.”

She picked up the old photo album, looked at him one last time, and said quietly:

“Well… goodbye, Vova.”

And she left.

He stayed standing in the hallway.

In the kitchen, his mother sat, having never come out, hoping her son and Marina might reconcile.

“Son, I didn’t eavesdrop… What happened? How did it go?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Nothing special. We just said goodbye.”

Vera Alexandrovna covered her face with her hands.

“Oh God… I wish I’d never gone on that damned trip…”

Six months passed. Vova became quieter, more withdrawn, and gave up drinking. He finally understood that alcohol couldn’t replace the person he had so foolishly lost. He settled into a bachelor life with his mother: went to work, and in the evenings sat by the window watching the sunset.

And in a faraway country, Marina was living a new life. She and Andrei went to the mountains and the sea, tried exotic food, learned tango, and planned to get a dog.

“Tell me, do you regret how it all turned out?” Andrei asked her one day.

“Not at all,” Marina replied. “Because for the first time in my life, I feel worthy of love. Not duty, not compromise—just real love.”

They walked along the waterfront, hand in hand. The sea murmured, embracing the shore. It was warm and wonderfully peaceful.

Just like the day that ill-fated trip had pushed her to finally accept the long-standing invitation from the man who had secretly loved her for years. The invitation she had kept in her heart, waiting only for the right moment to say yes to a new life.

And the moment had come on its own.