Oh man, I’ve got this story that’s just wild. You’d think in a marriage there’d be no secrets, right? Especially stupid little ones. But my husband, James, lied to me for *years*—cool as a cucumber, like it was nothing. He kept saying his company’s Christmas dos and summer outings were strictly no wives allowed. “Company policy,” he’d say. And I bought it. Didn’t push back—never been one for big parties anyway, and after our son Oliver came along, I just sank into the mum life.
But then the truth came out, and it wasn’t just a slap—it made me feel like a stranger in my own marriage.
James and I have only been married five years. Got pregnant right after the wedding—Oliver’s four now. Those years flew by in a blur of nappies, sleepless nights, and GP visits. I went back to work as soon as I could. His mum helped out, money got easier. I’d rush home early to be there. But James? He’d stay out later and later, sometimes rolling in at dawn, bleary-eyed, muttering about “deadlines.”
Three years ago, he landed this fancy job—better salary, no more moaning about his boss. But one thing bugged me: not once did he invite me to a work event. Not the summer BBQ, not the Christmas party. Always the same line: “It’s just not done. Lads only. Nothing personal.”
I believed him. *Wanted* to believe him. If he was hiding something, wouldn’t he just stay quiet? This felt like honesty. And honestly, I was too wiped for parties anyway. My mates—some single, some married—had drifted off. Weekends were laundry, cooking, nursery runs.
Then last week, I bumped into an old schoolmate, Emily, at Boots. We got coffee, started chatting. Turns out her husband works at James’s firm. Small world, right? I joked about us all meeting up Friday.
“Can’t,” she said. “Got the work do with my husband.”
I blinked. “Wait—you’re going?” She looked confused. “Yeah? Wives always go.”
And just like that, my stomach dropped. I played it cool, mumbled something about being busy, but inside? I was gutted. So he’d lied. For *years*. Walked home in a daze—not about the party, but the lie. Like I was something to be ashamed of.
That night over dinner, I kept my voice steady. “Funny thing—Emily’s going to your work do with her husband. Says it’s normal.”
He froze. Glanced at me sideways. Fiddled with his tea, wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Oh… that’s just for new hires. Our lot’ve known each other ages.”
“You never invited me. Three years isn’t *new*.”
He sighed, stared at the wall, and dropped it:
“I just wanted a night off. No couples, no ‘how’s the family’ chat. No sober bloke with his wife keeping tabs. I needed to unwind.”
Felt like a punch. So I’m… what? An embarrassment? Too boring? Or just a buzzkill?
Honestly, the lie hurt, but this? This was salt in the wound. I didn’t scream. Just decided—next time *my* work does a thing, I’m going solo. Dressing up, laughing, dancing.
Might not fix it, but he’ll learn: you don’t treat your wife like that. Not the one at home with a sick kid, not the one you couldn’t be bothered to invite. We’re not strangers. But right now? That’s exactly how I feel. And strangers don’t get plus-ones.
