“You never get anything done!”: One evening opened Mary’s eyes to the truth
—David and Emily invited us over,— Andrew announced during dinner, barely glancing at his wife. —We’re going tomorrow.
—Should I bake something? An apple pie, maybe? It feels wrong to show up empty-handed,— Natasha suggested.
—Don’t bother. Emily’s a brilliant cook,— her husband dismissed her. —Just bring wine and fruit, that’ll do.
Natasha nodded, though inside, she seethed. Yes, she wasn’t a gourmet chef, and yes, time was scarce—between their toddler and the endless chores, she barely had a moment. But she tried. She cooked, she cleaned. It just went unnoticed.
She’d only seen Emily once before, at a work party, and even then, just in passing. Now here they were, summoned like obedient guests, with hints that another man’s wife was somehow superior.
By Saturday evening, Natasha had dressed up, styled her hair—it still felt nice to step out. They left their son with his grandmother and set off.
Emily and David’s flat was immaculate. Gleaming surfaces, cosy lights, the scent of roast chicken and fresh bread in the air. Natasha stole glances around—they had a child too, yet not a single toy or crumb in sight. And Emily looked as though she’d just stepped out of a salon.
—Your place is lovely!— Natasha said politely.
—And spotless,— Andrew added. —Unlike ours. Nat, take notes!
Everyone laughed—except Natasha. The remark stung. Her smile faded, lips pressing tight. She wanted to leave right then, but decorum held her in place.
Dinner flowed smoothly until Andrew began lavishing praise on Emily—her cooking, her looks, how she even ironed her husband’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—just, Emily’s in a league of her own. Don’t take it to heart.
Natasha excused herself to the loo. Locked the door, and cried. He compared her. Belittled her. And she did *everything* for him.
She returned to the table, pretending nothing was wrong.
Then Emily spoke up.
—Andrew, if you like how I look, maybe follow David’s lead. He minds the kids while I hit the gym, spa, or even just the shops. You leave Natasha to do it all, then complain?
Andrew faltered, tried to laugh it off:
—Well… not all of us can be perfect.
—Natasha *could* be, if she wasn’t drowning in it alone,— Emily fired back. —Maybe if you lifted a finger now and then, your flat would be tidy, and she’d have time for herself.
—Are you ganging up on me?— Andrew snapped. —It was just a compliment!
—No, you humiliated your wife. Repeatedly. Praising Emily isn’t an excuse to shame Natasha,— David cut in sharply. —You didn’t even notice how much it hurt her.
—Natasha, tell them!— Andrew turned to her. —Explain everything’s fine.
She looked at him. Smiled, but her eyes were hollow.
—No, Andrew. It’s *not* fine. You belittle me. Constantly. I’m tired.
—So now you’re *against* me?— he hissed. —Let’s go. This is embarrassing.
—Call me if you need anything,— Emily murmured as Natasha said goodbye.
In the cab, Andrew erupted. At home, he kept going. Accusations flew: —They *poisoned* you! We were *fine* before!—
But Natasha didn’t shout. Didn’t defend herself. She just prepared for the morning—for the moment she’d file for divorce.
A month later, she was working. Their son started nursery. And she *breathed*. It was lighter now. No comparisons. No blame. And the silence in the flat? It wasn’t emptiness. It was freedom.
