Nothing can be resolved in an instant; everything must be done gradually. Preparation is key to avoid losing half of what has been gained.

I’m on my way home with a small box in my bag. Inside is a luxurious watch for Oliver – elegant and expensive, carefully chosen with great affection.

For months, I’ve been saving a bit from each paycheck to craft a special gift for him.

Tomorrow is my husband’s birthday. He turns forty-two – not a milestone year, but I want to make it memorable. We’ve been together for fifteen years.

I remember meeting at a friend’s gathering, how we struck up a conversation that lasted until the early hours, leaning against the entrance to the building.

The lift in our block is always temperamental. It’s an old relic from a bygone era, with wooden panels covered in graffiti.

I press the button for the lift. The cabin descends slowly, creaking as if it struggles with its task.

Finally, the doors open, and the inside light flickers. I step in and press the worn button marked “8.”

The doors close, and the lift begins to move upwards.

I envision spending the whole day with Oliver tomorrow, with friends and family gathering in the evening.

Suddenly, the lift jerks violently and comes to a halt.

I hit the “8” button again, then try others. No luck.

“Just what I needed!” I mutter, sighing. “What bad luck.”

I push the intercom button, and a crackling noise comes through before a young woman’s voice responds:

“Dispatcher speaking.”

“I’m stuck in the lift between the first and second floors.”

“I’ve informed the technician. Help is on the way, please wait.”

“And when exactly?” I ask, but all I hear is silence. The connection drops.

I pull out my phone. The signal is weak – just one bar.

I try calling Oliver, but it goes unanswered. He’s probably busy in a meeting or commuting home. Typically, he’s just getting back around now.

Twenty minutes pass. I’m crouched in the corner of the lift, resting against the wall.

My phone is nearly dead, so I decide to switch it off.

Suddenly, I hear voices outside the door.

A woman’s voice, bright but slightly hoarse.

It’s Hannah – the neighbour from the second floor. Young and striking, always in high heels. We nod at each other in passing but aren’t particularly close. Once, I helped her carry groceries, and she invited me for tea, but that was the extent of our relationship.

“You promised!” she’s saying with force. “How long can you keep putting it off? I can’t wait any longer!”

A male voice replies, too quiet to decipher, but I catch the tone – defensive, slightly irritable.

“Your promises mean nothing!” Hannah continues. “I can’t stand this anymore! You’re an adult, yet you’re acting like a child!”

I can’t help but listen in. A family dispute?

Under different circumstances, I would feel embarrassed eavesdropping, but boredom and desperation drive me to be an unwilling witness to their argument.

“What do you want from me, Hannah?”

The man’s voice grew louder, and I froze.

The timbre, the intonations… could it be Oliver?

I pressed myself against the lift door. No way.

Oliver should be at work or home, not in Hannah’s flat.

“I want you to finally tell her the truth,” Hannah’s voice quivers with indignation. “You need to get a divorce. How much longer will this drag on?”

“Nothing can be resolved in one go, you must understand,” I recognized Oliver’s voice now. “I need to prepare. In a divorce, I’ll lose half of everything: the flat, the car, our holiday cottage…”

“What about our son? Have you thought about him at all?”

The world around me tilted, as if I’d lost my balance. A son? What is she talking about?

“He’s almost a year old,” Hannah continued, her voice laced with reproach. “He only sees his father on weekends, and even then not always. How can you call yourself a father when you’re never there?”

I wanted to scream, to pound on the lift door with all my might. I wanted to shout that I could hear every word. But my body felt paralyzed, refusing to respond.

I stood frozen, as if I had dropped into an icy abyss. My mind raced with jumbled thoughts, memories, and questions.

“Just wait a little longer,” Oliver’s voice sounded tired and lifeless. “I’ve thought it all through. Soon it will all be settled.”

“What exactly have you thought through?” Hannah scoffed skeptically. “You always say the same things. You have an excuse for everything.”

“I’ve started transferring money to another account,” he replied in a business-like manner. “I’ve put the car in my brother’s name. Soon, I’ll say I’m going on a business trip, but I’ll actually file for divorce. It’ll be easier for everyone.”

“Why not do it now?” her voice drips with obvious distrust.

I slowly sank to the lift floor, clutching the box with the watch as tightly as though it could prevent me from falling into the abyss.

My thoughts collided, twisting and breaking apart. How did this happen? When? We’d been so happy! We even planned to build a new shed at the holiday cottage this summer.

Oliver always seemed so attentive and caring. Could it all have been a façade?

Then I recalled something my mother said. Before my wedding, she took my hands and said seriously:
“Oliver is quite the catch. Women will always be around him. Be careful not to let him ruin your marriage.”

I had laughed then, thinking her warning silly and unfounded.
How wrong I was…

The voices outside fell silent. It felt as if the entire building had plunged into quiet, leaving me alone.

Questions swirled in my mind: how long has this been going on? Do the other neighbours know? Most importantly – what should I do now?

If Oliver planned to betray me like this, then I would take the first step. I decided to reveal his deception on his birthday. Let him discover the cost of his lies.

After a few minutes, there was a knock at the lift door.

“Hey, is anyone there?” came a male voice.

“Yes, I’m here!” I called out, struggling to stand. My legs were numb from crouching.

“I’m coming to open it, don’t worry!”

I heard the sound of tools scraping, and a few moments later, the lift door finally opened.

Standing outside was an older maintenance man in a blue jumpsuit bearing the emblem of the management company. His gray hair, lined face, and rough hands marked years of labor.

“Well, there you go,” he smiled. “Freedom! How long have you been stuck?”

“I’m not sure. My phone ran out of battery, and I don’t have a watch,” I replied as I stepped out of the lift.

I straightened up with relief, feeling the tension leave my body.

“These old lifts are utterly useless,” the man sighed. “But no one’s in a rush to replace them. There’s no money, they say.”

I nodded, thanked him, and gradually walked up the stairs to the eighth floor.

As I opened the door to our flat, Oliver was already home, sitting in the living room with his laptop on his lap. His glasses were perched on the tip of his nose, hair disheveled – he always looked like this when he was focused.

“Oh, you’re back!” he smiled with that familiar warm grin. “I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer.”

“I got stuck in the lift,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “My phone was nearly dead.”

“Not that blasted lift again,” Oliver shook his head. “We need to lodge a complaint. How much longer can we put up with this?”

I looked at him and couldn’t fathom how he could lie so convincingly. Every gesture, every tone now seemed false, rehearsed.

“Are you coming for dinner?” I asked as I headed to the kitchen. “I’ll whip up some pasta.”

“Of course,” he replied. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ll manage,” I waved him off and began pulling ingredients from the fridge.

The evening passed as it usually did. We dined, discussed the news, and watched a series together. Oliver shared work stories, and I listened attentively, nodding and laughing at his jokes.

But within me, my plan was brewing.

The next morning began with my overly cheerful greeting:

“Happy birthday, darling!”

Oliver opened his eyes, stretched, and smiled.

“Thank you, my love.”

“I have a surprise for you,” I replied, grinning mysteriously. “But first, you need to close your eyes.”

“What are you up to?”

“You’ll see,” I said, retrieving his dark blue tie from the wardrobe. “Turn around while I tie it over your eyes.”

Obediently, he turned. I carefully tied the tie over his eyes, ensuring he couldn’t see.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked as I led him out of the flat.

Concern and curiosity tinged his voice.

“Please tell me it’s not skydiving? You know I’m afraid of heights.”

“You’ll find out soon,” I answered, guiding him toward the lift. “Just trust me.”

We descended to the second floor. I took Oliver out of the lift and walked him to Hannah’s door.

I pressed the doorbell.

Every second of waiting stretched endlessly.

In my mind, images appeared: the door opening, Hannah’s stunned expression. I imagined her bewilderment.

Finally, the door creaked open. Hannah stood there in a bathrobe, towel on her still-damp hair, her face wearing a look of mild confusion.

“Take him back,” I said, gently nudging Oliver forward.

“What?” Hannah stared at us, clearly bewildered.

I ushered my husband into her flat. He still had no clue, but he obediently followed me.

“You can remove the blindfold now,” I said assertively.

Oliver pulled the tie from his eyes, blinked, and began to survey his surroundings.

“Where are we? What’s going on?” he looked from me to Hannah, apparently unable to recognize the setting. “Whose flat is this?”

I crossed my arms and prepared for the climax.

“Ask your Hannah,” I said coldly.

Oliver stared at the neighbour with such genuine confusion that, for a moment, I doubted myself.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, glancing between us. “Vicky, please explain.”

Hannah mirrored his confusion.

“Have you both gone mad?” she queried.

“Stop pretending,” I snapped. “I heard everything yesterday. Your conversation by the lift.”

Hannah frowned.

“What conversation? I was at work all day yesterday. I returned only at nine in the evening. I had a shift at the store until eight.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then a man emerged from the kitchen.

He was holding a little boy who was happily munching on a biscuit.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, and I froze.

His voice… that timbre, those intonations… almost identical to Oliver’s. The way he spoke felt disconcertingly familiar.

Heat flooded through me. The man didn’t resemble Oliver, but their voices… they were practically the same.

I burst out laughing, taking Oliver’s hand and pulling him towards the door.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to Hannah. “This is a misunderstanding. We’re leaving now.”

Once at home, I recounted the entire story to my husband. Oliver listened with interest, as though watching a plot unfold in a film.

Then he shook his head and embraced me.

“Vicky, how could you think I was capable of such a thing? After fifteen years together? You know how much I love you.”

“You’ll believe it when you find yourself in a situation like this,” I smiled. “I’m sorry for the performance.”

“It’s alright,” Oliver smiled back. “Now we have a funny story for family nights.”

Finally, I retrieved the box from my bag and handed it to him.

Oliver was thrilled with the gift, putting on the watch immediately and admiring it throughout the day.