“It’s cozy here, like a pensioner,” my ex-husband declared right from the doorway, barely stepping into the room where I was celebrating my anniversary with my girlfriends. He didn’t even take off his coat. He headed straight toward me.

“Hello, ex-girlfriend,” he added with a wry smile.

He was holding a girl in a tight beige dress by the arm.

About twenty-five, no more. The same age as our eldest daughter.

The music stopped on its own. Just a moment ago, the guests were laughing, discussing something, clinking glasses.

Now silence fell over the room. I stood at the table, clutching the stem of my glass so tightly that my fingers turned white.

We hadn’t seen each other for three years. Since the day he said he’d “outgrown our relationship” and went looking for inspiration.

Looks like he found it.

“Well, happy anniversary. Fifty is a respectable age. May God grant us all long life,” he handed me the package.

Inside there was anti-aging cosmetics.

— Meet Anna, my fiancée.

She’s my model. Beautiful, isn’t she?

Anna batted her false eyelashes and looked at my friends as if she were in a wax museum. With caution and a hint of fear.

“We decided to come and congratulate you.

I see everything’s the same. The same friends, the same conversations. It’s a shame nothing’s changed for you in three years.

And look at me, what I’ve accomplished. I go to the gym, stay in shape, and have a young woman by my side. And you’re still the same… Well, you get the idea.”

I put the glass on the table and smiled.

— Thank you for coming.

And thank you for the gift. By the way, I also want to introduce you to someone.

My ex-husband was shocked when he saw my “special” guest; he quickly apologized and literally ran away from the party.

At that moment, a man approached us. Tall, confident, in a perfectly tailored suit.

Everyone in town knows him. A prominent businessman, an eligible bachelor, featured in the news. His car costs as much as a fine house.

— Meet my fiancé.

I think you’ve heard of him. If I’m not mistaken, you work for his company.

I saw my ex’s face turn pale, then red. His hand, which he extended for a handshake, was visibly shaking.

My man smiled reservedly and shook his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said calmly, without unnecessary emotion.

“N-nice… to meet you… We have to go.

Sorry,” the ex muttered, avoiding my gaze.

Anna smiled sheepishly and hurried after him. A minute later, the door closed. The music started playing again, the guests came to life, and someone quietly laughed.

I raised my glass and thought that age isn’t about a number.

It’s about who’s there for you when you need them.