“Can’t you ever keep up?”: One evening opened Mary’s eyes to the truth
— Dave and Emma invited us over, — Andrew said during dinner, barely glancing at his wife. — We’re going tomorrow.
— Should I bake something? An apple pie, maybe? It feels rude to show up empty-handed, — Natasha suggested.
— Don’t bother. Emma’s a brilliant cook, — her husband brushed her off. — Just bring wine and some fruit. That’ll do.
Natasha nodded, but inside, she was fuming. Sure, she wasn’t some gourmet chef, and with a toddler at home, time was tight. But she tried—she cooked, she cleaned. Not that anyone noticed.
She’d only seen Emma once before, at a work do, and even then, just in passing. Now, she had to go over there like it was some royal command, with hints that other wives did it better.
Saturday evening, Natasha dressed up, did her hair—it was nice to get out, after all. They left their son with his gran and set off.
Emma and Dave’s flat was spotless. Gleaming surfaces, cosy touches, the scent of roast chicken and fresh baking. Natasha sneaked a look around—they had a kid too, but not a single toy or crumb in sight. And Emma looked like she’d just stepped out of a salon.
— Your place is lovely! — Natasha said politely.
— And tidy, — Andrew added. — Not like ours. Nat, take notes!
Everyone laughed—except Natasha. The jab stung. She forced a smile, lips pressed tight. Part of her wanted to leave right then, but manners held her in place.
Dinner chat flowed easily until Andrew started gushing over Emma—her cooking, her looks, how she even ironed Dave’s shirts.
— Now that’s a proper wife! — he declared. — Wish I had one like that!
— What about me? — Natasha couldn’t stay quiet.
— Oh, you’re… fine. But Emma’s in a league of her own. Don’t take it personal.
Natasha excused herself to the loo. Locked the door and cried. He compared her. Diminished her. And after everything she did for him.
She returned to the table, pretending nothing was wrong.
Then Emma spoke up.
— Andrew, if you like how I look so much, maybe take a leaf out of Dave’s book. He minds our son while I hit the gym, get my nails done, or just shop. You leave Natasha to juggle everything, then moan she’s not perfect?
Andrew faltered, tried to laugh it off.
— Well… not everyone can be that on it.
— Natasha could be, if she wasn’t doing it all alone, — Emma shot back. — Maybe if you lifted a finger now and then, your place would be tidy, and she’d have time for herself.
— So now you’re ganging up on me? — Andrew snapped. — I was just paying a compliment!
— No, you were belittling your wife. Repeatedly. And praising Emma isn’t an excuse to humiliate Natasha, — Dave cut in. — You didn’t even clock how awful this was for her.
— Natasha, tell them! — Andrew turned to her. — Explain it’s fine.
She looked at him. Smiled, but her eyes were hollow.
— No, Andrew. It’s not fine. You undermine me. Constantly. I’m done.
— So now you’re turning on me?! — he hissed. — Let’s go. This is embarrassing.
— Call me if you need anything, — Emma murmured as Natasha said goodbye.
In the taxi, Andrew exploded. Ranted all the way home. Blamed her: “They poisoned you against me! We were happy before!”
But Natasha didn’t shout. Didn’t defend herself. She just quietly planned for the morning—when she’d file for divorce.
A month later, she was working. Her son started nursery. She could breathe again. No more comparisons. No more jabs. And the quiet at home? It wasn’t emptiness. It was peace.
