The end of summer was unusually hot. The sun blazed mercilessly, as if it wanted to burn everything to ashes. At the roadside crossroads, elderly women had set up little stalls, displaying their handmade baskets. Inside were freshly picked apples smelling faintly of orchards, vibrant green herbs, juicy parsley and dill, cucumbers twisted like old cloves, and plump tomatoes—fragrant and warm from the garden. Each woman sold what she had managed to grow: whatever had been planted and tended to was now laid out for sale.

Mark, returning home after a long shift, swallowed involuntarily, feeling the dryness in his throat. He was in a hurry—Mikhail was already waiting for him in the garage. They had a difficult job ahead with an old Volga—a big gray car that looked more like a museum exhibit than a vehicle.

They tinkered for almost three hours, turning parts, banging, quietly swearing, trying to coax life back into the aging machine. At last, their efforts paid off. With a satisfied grin, Mikhail grabbed the phone and called the owner:

“Come pick up your beauty! She’s running like new!”

He immediately booked the next client—already scheduled for tomorrow. Meanwhile, Mark washed up and headed home. He was almost at the apartment entrance when suddenly he remembered: tomatoes! He turned back—just in time. Without that bag of fresh greens and ripe tomatoes, Elena would surely be disappointed.

At home, dinner was already waiting for him—golden, crispy potatoes fresh from the pan. Elena sat at the table, her expression clouded with a hint of displeasure.

“Where were you wandering? I thought you forgot the way home. The potatoes have gone cold; everything was ready and waiting for you. I cooked just for your arrival,” she said, crossing her arms in quiet reproach.

“I brought tomatoes,” Mark replied tiredly, handing her the bag.

“I see. But did it take so long to buy them? They’re sold on every street corner these days. Maybe add some herring? I could warm up the pan?” she said, her voice edged with frustration.

While Elena fussed in the kitchen, Mark changed clothes. She grumbled but did everything with care—slicing bread, preparing salad, setting out butter. He sat down and attacked the food as if starving. He loved potatoes fried that way—with a golden crust, onions, and a piece of salted herring. Elena watched him quietly, sadness hidden behind her eyes.

“Want me to pour you something cold?” she offered softly, glancing up.

“No, no need. Early start tomorrow,” he said curtly.

She fell silent. Elena had noticed lately that Mark hardly drank, but he had become quieter, working late nights. He used to share everything—his work, his thoughts, even his worries. Now he said almost nothing.

Elena wasn’t naive. She sensed the distance growing between them. Not drinking was good, not disappearing was also good. But now he was only physically present at home. If he had simply gone out with friends and come back late, that would be one thing. But now it was like he had retreated inside himself, hiding behind a wall she couldn’t breach.

“Are you hiding something, Mark?” she had once dared to ask. He just shrugged and turned away.

She didn’t know what to think. Mark was nearly fifty—the so-called dangerous age, as the television programs warned. Men at this age often lose their minds: they chase younger women, leave families behind, marry girls who could be their daughters. Later comes the phase called “love till death,” but that was still far off.

Mark had no savings, no apartment downtown, no fancy car. But his age—the same as those warned about on TV. Elena felt it intuitively. She tried to keep herself beautiful: facial masks, creams, dyed her hair in natural shades, even gave up her favorite pancakes to go on a strict diet.

But even this failed. The first thing to go was what Mark had always liked most about her. She sighed. Her husband hadn’t looked at her with the same warmth and desire in a long time. It was all “tired,” “not now,” “don’t want to.” And yet, once, she had been beautiful.

One day she decided: enough! She returned to her old diet, and the weight came back faster than it had left. Then she tried dieting again—kefir, less bread... but nothing helped.

Today, potatoes again—the ones she fried in the evening, waiting for her husband’s arrival. She cooked for him but barely ate herself, taking a bite here and there. When Mark came in, she had no appetite left.

Elena was angry—more at herself than at him. “He’ll find himself a slimmer woman,” she thought anxiously.

But they used to live like a family. Two sons, grandchildren growing up sweetly. The sons lived far away but called regularly, cared for them. The daughters-in-law were kind and attentive. Everything seemed fine.

But why was Mark so distant? What was happening to him?

Elena hid her worries, but inside her anxiety grew like a storm ready to burst. At night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, puzzling: what if? What if one day he leaves? How would she explain it to the children? What would the daughters-in-law think? How would she live alone in old age?

That night, Mark came home tired and silent again, late as usual. He brought tomatoes and greens. Maybe just to cover something up? Or maybe to say something silently?

“Maybe he’s already found someone else?” the thought flashed in her mind. She pushed it away, but the pain lingered in her chest.

Her imagination painted a vivid picture—a young blonde, bright lipstick, confident movements, as if she knew her worth. Elena felt that such a girl could eclipse her in Mark’s eyes. At that thought, something painful clenched her heart—not her body, but her spirit, trembling in fear of losing the closest person she had.

“Would I be okay with that if it turned out true?” she asked herself.

No, of course not. But accusing Mark without proof was pointless. A thief is only a thief when caught. And Mark had not been caught. Yet the thoughts haunted her relentlessly. Her heart raced anxiously; she could not sleep, tossing and turning all night.

“What should I do?” she whispered to herself in the quiet kitchen. “Make a scene? Have a hysterics? Then he would definitely leave. Maybe even to that one, from my worst nightmares.”

But to remain silent, endure, close her eyes—that was unbearable. And she endured. And Mark stayed out later and later, disappearing in the evenings. For the past six months, she rarely saw him home on time. One excuse or another—constant “responsibilities.”

At work, colleagues whispered with sympathy. One of the younger women advised decisively:

“Find that homewrecker! Catch her, pull her hair out!”

But Elena was not capable of such revenge. She didn’t even understand how she ended up telling one person, then another, and the story spread through the office. Now everyone—even those never married—felt obliged to give advice.

“Men are like that,” the older ones said. “They fool around, then come back. They want new at first, then they are drawn back to where it’s warm and cozy.”

“If he were rich,” someone added bitterly, “you could endure it. But he’s just an ordinary man. No yacht, no expensive gifts. And without money, love cools quickly.”

Elena listened but was in no hurry to act. She feared a sharp move would push Mark away forever. Somewhere deep inside, a hope burned: he would come to his senses, return, understand that family is the most important thing.

At lunch break, a woman from HR approached Elena—older, serious-looking. She whispered:

“Let’s go for a walk around the corner… I need a smoke.”

Neither smoked, but the conversation required privacy.

“They say your husband is fooling around?” the HR woman asked bluntly.

Elena tensed inside—gossip again.

“I haven’t caught him, haven’t checked… but I suspect—yes,” she answered cautiously.

“I didn’t tell you this,” the woman lowered her voice, “but I have an acquaintance. She had the same story: her husband started drifting away, almost left. She prayed, cried, even asked for advice…”

“And what helped?” Elena asked with interest.

“She went to one woman. The woman listened, asked for a photo of the husband and some personal item. Like socks or underwear. Also candles—special ones from Jerusalem. They get them at the temple.”

“Where would I get those?” Elena frowned.

“You can order them. The main thing is to bring them. The woman arranges everything in order: herbs at the bottom, the item on top, then the photo. They even used a wedding ring. They light the candle, drip wax through the ring right onto the photo and clothes. The ring is returned, and the bundle is tied in a knot and hidden so no one finds it—on a high shelf, behind a wardrobe, anywhere.”

“That’s all?”

“No. She gave a small vial. Told her to add a little to the food—‘all foolishness and lust will go away.’ After a couple of weeks, the husband was like reborn—came home, became caring, even gave flowers.”

Elena listened, trying to remain skeptical, but the thought that it might work crept into her mind. Before, she would have laughed it off, thinking witchcraft was nonsense. But now, in a state of anxiety and despair, she was ready to cling to the slightest chance.

“Are you sure it really works?” she asked doubtfully.

“I know the person myself. Saw him afterward—loves his wife, carries her in his arms. And she’s just an ordinary woman, nothing special.”

“And what if it doesn’t help?”

“What do you have to lose?” shrugged the HR woman. “Try it. Maybe something will change. If you want—I can give you the address. Just don’t delay until it’s too late.”

Elena wrote down the contacts, went home, and began collecting what was needed. She sorted photos for a long time, remembering she also needed a personal item of Mark’s. She first wanted to choose underwear but changed her mind—it was all new, but old T-shirts were there. One he had just taken off yesterday—perfect.

After work, she stopped by the church—luckily, Jerusalem candles were in stock. She bought all six. Then she went to the given address. Everything was as described: a private house, the smell of herbs, dim light inside, a woman whispering incantations. Candles, rings, bouquets of dry herbs—each element had significance.

When the ritual was over, Elena carefully listened to further instructions. She thanked the woman, carefully packed the bundle in her bag, and went home. Mark was late—a perfect opportunity to hide everything. The bundle lay on the high shelf, the candle was lit, prayers whispered. The vial with the potion was hidden in the kitchen cabinet—where the spices were.

She decided to use it on Saturday morning, as advised.

Already on Saturday, Mark noticed a change in her behavior.

“Why are you so quiet?” he asked, surprised, sitting at the table. Usually, Elena would immediately start scolding, complaining, reminding him he forgot the family. But now—not a word.

“Just tired,” she answered shortly, still wondering if she had done everything right. Had she made a mistake in the ritual?

And then, for the first time in a long while, he himself asked:

“How are the kids?”

Elena almost beamed: “Did it work?!”

For the first time in months, she went to bed peacefully, without anxious thoughts.

The next day, she herself called the HR woman and told everything in detail:

“I did everything as instructed: herbs, T-shirt, candles. There was even a queue—people come in droves to that woman. I put the bundle on the high shelf, said prayers, lit the candle. And you know, he came home and just asked: ‘How are you?’ That never happened before!”

“Of course it works!” the woman answered enthusiastically. “A little more—and he’ll stop paying attention to others altogether.”

Inspired by the support, Elena eagerly awaited the next Saturday—the day she was to add the potion to his cup. Every evening she lit candles, read prayers. Good thing she had stocked up.

Slowly but surely, the anxiety in her heart calmed. She felt: everything would be fine. Mark was becoming different—more attentive, more often at home. Elena began to believe he would return to the family. And then—pension, years ahead, who else would need him but her? No young girl would want a poor pensioner. And she would accept, forgive, be there. He would understand that she was the only one worthy of his love.

On Friday, Mark was late. Meanwhile, Elena finished her prayers, the last candle burned out… and she waited hopefully for her husband.

She put on water, boiled pasta, fried cutlets. The smell of meat mixed with the aroma of spices. Everything was ready long before his return. He came home tired, as if he had worked all day in harsh conditions. Silently attacked the food, barely talking. After dinner, he collapsed on the bed and instantly fell asleep. Elena left the TV on in the background and settled on the couch, dreaming that a new chapter in their life would begin tomorrow. With these thoughts, she peacefully fell asleep, barely holding back a smile in a half-sleep.

In the morning, Mark woke earlier than usual. He wanted to sleep more—it was a day off—but his body wouldn’t let him. Elena, on the other hand, overslept. And she had to add the potion to his cup! She planned to make coffee, thinking the aroma would mask the strange taste. But Mark decided: tea today.

“Tea, so tea…” Elena muttered, watching her husband already sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. “I’ll set everything myself.”

Elena took eggs and began beating them—pretending to make an omelet