Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)

Yours hasnt written or rung you yet?
No, Vera, not a word after nine days, not after forty either, Lydia joked, adjusting her apron around her ample waist, though her smile was tired and thin.
Gone off the rails, it seems. Or worse, her neighbour nodded with grim understanding. Well, wait for him, wait. The police are quiet too?
Silent as fish in the North Sea, love, sighed Lydia, her words dissolving in the misty morning.
Ah, well Fate, isnt it.
The conversation was a weight across Lydias shoulders. She switched the broom to her other hand and began sweeping the sodden autumn leaves scattered along her narrow street. It was a never-ending, grey-skied October, 1988. No sooner had she swept the path than more leaves shivered down, so shed turn and start over, driving them into little mounds.
Three years retired, Lydia Archer had finally let herself settle into well-earned peace. But last month the pension ceased to be enough, so she took up work as a caretaker on the council estateno other job turning up fast enough.
She and her husband had lived as ordinary as you please, nothing showy about them. They worked, raised their son. Evenings meant telly and tea. Her husband, Alan, was not a heavy drinkeronly at Christmas or birthdaysand his work at the railway was reputable. No sniffing after women, no secrets. Lydia, a nurse at the hospital all her life, still kept her certificates pinned up in the hallway.
Alan departed on a council holiday to the seaside and simply never returned. At first, Lydia thought nothing of it. He never calledso, she reasoned, he must be having a good rest. But when the train he was meant to come home on passed without him, Lydia rang round every authority she could think of: local hospitals, police, even the coroners office.
She sent a telegram to their son, Peter, doing his Army service in Aldershot, and when they finally spoke, they pieced things togetherAlan checked out of his hotel but never got on the train home. Vanished. The investigation looped; she rang hospitals and morgues in a kind of trance.
At Alans work, the men only shrugged:
“Our job was to hand him the seaside holiday, Lydia. We mind our business. If he doesnt show up, well, well mark him absent, then sack him in due course.”
Lydia longed to journey there herself, but Peter persuaded her otherwise:
“Mum, what could you do? Let me go, Ill have some leave soon. Im in uniform, I can get about easier, peoplell talk to me.”
She calmed a little and forced herself to keep busy, fearing the snare of sinister daydreams. She treated the police station like a second home now, but her visits were routine. No news came. Work helped as wellthe act of sweeping kept her upright. In the evenings, she would finally let go, weeping alone in their small house, cursing fate for sending such trials so late in life. The not knowing was the hardest.
Alan came home just as strangely as hed left.
He appeared in the same navy suit, the one hed worn off to the coast, no bag, not even a paper under his arm, just standing there with his collar up, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, watching Lydias sweeping as if from underwater.
She didnt even see him at first; it was Peter who called out, startling her.
“Alan? Peter” Lydia let the broom tumble and ran.
She flung open her arms, like a seabird coming home at last, dashing into her husbands chest. Alan hesitated, then held her awkwardly.
“Lets get inside, you two,” Peter huffed, clearly ill-pleased. Lydia heard it in his clipped steps.
“Peter, come here, let me hug you, Ive not seen you since spring,” she called, following him in.
“Hello, hello. Its cold, lets go in,” he replied stiffly.
“Why didnt you ring? I could have tidied up, made something special.”
“Mum, I didnt come for cakes. I promised. Here we are.”
Lydia looked from husband to son, lost in the fog of all her anxious months. He was alive, at least. That was what matteredfor now, she simply wanted to feed them, pour strong tea, let them rest. Alan just sat, silent.
“Mum, just sit down, please.”
But Lydia bustled in the kitchen, clattering cups and plates. Soon Peter broke the uneasy quiet:
“Mum, Dad was living with another woman. Near the sea.”
Lydia spun to stare at her husband. Alan sat on the little stool, hands clasped, staring at the worn linothin and sour, almost boyish with guilt.
“With who? Whats going on, Alan?”
All her imaginings had been disastersa mugging, no ticket money, wandering penniless, Alan lost and hungry on strange streets. Not this.
“He didnt come home. He stayed in a cottage by the shore with an Olivia Rivers. He didnt want to leave her.”
Lydia blinked at her husband.
“What do you mean, didnt want?”
“I just realised I was living wrong,” Alans voice rose just slightly. “Day after day, work, railway, garden on Sundays. Nothing but duty. No freedom.”
“Oh, freedom!” Lydias anger rose, red as cider apples.
“And you, Peterwhy drag the old man back here? Want to shame me? Mightve been kinder to tell me theyd found his body. I cried my eyes dry, thinking him in pain, worrying, and meanwhile hes cosied up in some seaside cottage!”
“Lydia. I just wanted to start again, thats all.”
“You didnt want to start your life, Alanyou wanted your holiday never to end. Real men face things. You come home, you say its over, youre real. You dont just vanish and hide with another woman. I dont want to see you anymore. Go on, off you go!”
Alan rose, turning down the hallway.
“Nono, go now, just like you never came back! I cant! I wont!” Lydias voice cracked into a shriek.
“Dad, go,” Peter said, already at the door.
A fortnight drifted by before Lydia saw Alan again.
She was at the familiar business of sweeping the pavement, chasing yesterdays rainwater towards the gutter, when she spied him at the end of the house, wearing a battered old mac and an absurd woollen hat.
“Lydia,” he called, then louder.
She looked up at him, feeling as if her limbs belonged to someone else. She might have forgiven him, if only she could move, but now she was frozen. Alan shuffled closer.
“I stayed,” he said. “Got another job at the railway. Not a foreman, just on the tools so far. Will you let me in?”
She leaned on the broom and stared.
“I will,” she answered. “To sign the divorce papers.”
“Still wont forgive me? I get it.”
“If you understand, why are you here?”
“Olivia said if I left, shed not take me back, so I I left and came here, Lydia.”
She laugheda hollow, weary sound.
“So neither here nor there, youre wanted. The only reason you returned is Peter made you. He wouldnt have left without you, so you came home. Well, get on with your life, Alan, as you wished. Dont get in my way. Youre treading mud all over, you know”
She gave his shoes a few brisk swipes with the broom and turned away, sweeping with renewed fury.
When she looked back a few minutes later, Alan was gone. She even sighed, feeling as though a boulder had rolled off her shoulder. A strange thoughtsometimes, those who wound you are protected by those around you, yet she, in this foggy, dreamlike morning, was all exposed and sweeping endlessly on.