Even Thirty Years of Marriage Isn’t a Reason to Tolerate Infidelity Helen turned the small jewellery box over in her hands – its velvet worn, golden letters faded. Inside, three tiny gemstones sparkled. Beautiful, she had to admit. “Five hundred quid,” said Oliver, scrolling through news on his tablet. “Got it at Goldsmiths, with a loyalty discount.” “Thank you, darling.” Something clenched inside her—not because of the price (who could quibble at their age?) but the way he said it. So casually. As if announcing he’d bought a pint of milk. Thirty years together. A Pearl Anniversary – rare these days. Helen got up early, laid out the fancy lace tablecloth—her mother-in-law’s wedding gift. She started baking a vanilla cloud cake—the one Oliver once called “a slice of heaven.” Now he sat absorbed in his iPad, grunting vague responses to her questions. “Ollie, do you remember how you promised to whisk me off to Italy for our thirtieth?” “Yeah,” not looking up. “I thought… perhaps at least a weekend by the seaside? We haven’t had a holiday together in ages.” “Helen, I’ve got a project on the go. No time at the moment.” There was always a project, especially these past eighteen months, since Oliver had become ‘smitten’ with youth. Joined a gym, bought pricey trainers, revamped his wardrobe; even his haircut now featured a side-swept fringe and shaved temples. “Midlife crisis,” said her friend Sarah. “It’ll pass—all men go through it.” But it hadn’t passed. In fact, it had grown. Helen tried on the ring—perfect fit. So, at least after all these years, he remembered her size. The stones sparkled with a cold light. “Beautiful,” she repeated, studying the gift. “Yes. Trendy setting. Young people’s style.” That evening, over their special dinner, they sat almost in silence. The cake was as lovely as ever—light, airy. Oliver praised it without thinking. Helen looked at him, wondering: When did her husband become a stranger? “And who’s the girl?” she suddenly asked. “What girl?” Oliver looked up from his plate. “The one who picked out this trendy ring.” “What’s she got to do with it?” “Oliver,” she said calmly, “I’m not stupid. A woman chose this ring. No man says ‘young people’s style.’” A long, awkward pause. “Helen, don’t be ridiculous.” “Her name’s Amelia, isn’t it?” Oliver paled. He didn’t ask how she knew—so she’d hit the mark. “I saw your messages by accident. A month ago, when you asked me to find your insurance number on your phone. ‘Sweetheart, can’t wait to see you’—ring any bells?” He said nothing. “Twenty-eight, works in your office. Yesterday she posted a photo from that restaurant—the window table where you sat. I recognised the tablecloth.” “How do you know about the restaurant?” “Sarah saw you. By chance. You don’t think people notice in a small town?” Oliver sighed: “All right. Yes, there’s Amelia. But it’s not what you think.” “And what exactly is it?” “She understands me. With her, I feel alive, it’s fun. We talk about books, films…” “And with me, there’s nothing to talk about?” “Helen, just look at yourself! You only talk about the kids, health things, the shopping bill. With Amelia, I feel young again.” “Alive,” repeated Helen. “I see.” “I didn’t want to hurt you.” Oliver dropped his head. “Does she know you’re married?” “She knows.” “And she’s okay with that? Happy to date a married man?” “Helen, she’s a modern girl. No illusions.” “Modern,” Helen gave a short laugh. “So thirty years with you—an illusion?” She cleared the table, hands shaking but trying not to show it. “Let’s just talk, Helen.” “There’s nothing left to say. You made your choice.” “I haven’t chosen anyone!” “You have. Every night you come home late. Lie about your trips. Buy her gifts—with my money.” “Our money!” “My money too. I work, remember?” Helen washed up, stacked dishes in the rack, put away the fancy tablecloth. Everything as usual—only her hands trembled. “What do you want, Helen?” asked Oliver, standing in the kitchen doorway. “I want to be alone tonight. Need to think.” “And tomorrow?” “I don’t know.” For two days, she hardly spoke. Oliver tried to reach her, but got only polite monosyllables. On the third day, he cracked: “How long is this going to go on?” “Isn’t it enough for you?” asked Helen, as she ironed his shirt. “I’m doing everything as always—cooking, cleaning, washing.” “But you won’t talk!” “What’s the point? You have Amelia to talk with.” “Helen!” “What, Helen? You said I’m boring. Nothing to discuss. Why force it?” That evening he left, saying, “I’ll be with friends.” She knew he meant Amelia. Helen sat at her computer, opened Amelia’s social media page. Pretty. Young. Photos from expensive resorts, trendy clothes, holding champagne. One post, from yesterday: “Life’s wonderful when someone truly values you.” The hashtags—love, happiness, matureman. Mature man. Helen chuckled. Like a product listing. Her friends commented: “Amelia, when’s the wedding?”, “Lucky you!”, “What does his wife think?” Down the list, Amelia replied, “Their marriage is only on paper. They live as flatmates.” Thirty years—as flatmates. Next morning, Helen saw a solicitor. A young man in glasses listened to her story. “I see. All jointly owned assets are split fifty-fifty: house, cottage, car. If we prove adultery, you may get a larger share.” “I don’t want more,” said Helen. “Just fair.” At home, she wrote out the split: House—sell, divide the money. Cottage—for him. I won’t go there anymore. Car—for me. He can buy a new one. Bank accounts—split. Oliver returned late, saw the list on the table. “What’s this?” “Divorce.” “You’re mad!” “No. I’ve finally come to my senses.” “Helen, I explained! It’s a passing crush. It’ll end!” “And if it doesn’t? Should I wait another thirty years for you to ‘get over it’?” Oliver slumped on the sofa, hands over his face. “I never meant to hurt you.” “But you did.” “What should I do now?” “Choose,” said Helen. “Either your family, or Amelia. There’s no third option.” Three months they lived like neighbours—literally. Oliver moved into the guest room. They spoke only when necessary. Helen signed up for English classes, swimming, read books she’d never had time for. Amelia kept calling, crying into the phone. Oliver went to the balcony, explaining in whispers. One night, he came home early, sat opposite Helen: “I’ve ended things with her.” “Why tell me?” “Helen, please… I see now. I’ve been a fool. Made a dreadful mistake.” “I agree.” “Can we try again? I’ve changed.” Helen put down her book: “Oliver, you didn’t break up with her because you realised my worth. You broke up because you were bored. And the next ‘Amelia’ will come along in a year or two.” “No she won’t!” “Oh, she will. It’s not me you’ve lost—it’s your youth. And I can’t bring that back.” “Helen…” “The divorce papers are ready. Please sign.” He signed. No fights, no asset wrangling. Helen took only what she’d put on her list. Six months later, she met Rowan—her age, a widower, English teacher. They met at class. He invited her to the theatre. “You know, Helen,” Rowan said over coffee afterwards, “I enjoy talking with you. You’re a brilliant conversationalist.” “Really? My ex-husband thought I was dull.” “Then he never learned to listen.” Rowan listened. Valued her opinions and laughed at her jokes, and shared his life stories—never pretending to be younger than he was. “What do you admire in a woman?” Helen asked him once. “Intelligence. Kindness. Honesty. What about you in a man?” “Integrity. And someone who isn’t afraid of his age.” They laughed. Oliver sometimes called, sent holiday greetings, asked after her health. Like former good acquaintances. “Are you happy?” he asked once. “Yes,” Helen replied softly. “And you?” “I don’t know. Probably not.” “Well, we all make our own choices.” She still keeps that five-hundred-pound ring—not to wear, just tucked away in its box. A reminder of how easily thirty years together can be made to feel worthless. And Rowan gave her, for her birthday, a vintage brooch from a flea market—modest, but chosen with love. “Beauty isn’t about the price,” he said. “It’s about the heart behind the gift.” And Helen realised—life doesn’t end after fifty. It’s only just beginning again. What do you think? Is it possible to start fresh again in midlife? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 min

Even thirty years of marriage isnt a reason to accept betrayal

Today I spun a small jewellery box in my hands the navy velvet now worn, the gold letters almost rubbed away. Inside, three tiny stones glimmered. Beautiful, I can admit that much.

“Five hundred pounds,” Mark said, scrolling through news on his iPad. “Got it at Goldsmiths, using the loyalty card.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Something twisted in my chest. Not because of the price there are no complaints at our age, are there? But it was the way he said it. So plain. As if he was reporting hed bought a pint of milk.

Thirty years together. Our pearl anniversary rare enough these days. Id woken up early, taken out the lacy tablecloth from the wardrobe a wedding present from Marks mum. Started baking a lemon drizzle cake the one Mark used to call “a slice of heaven.”

And now he sat, face lit only by the screen, barely grunting in response to anything I said.

“Mark, do you remember how you promised to take me to Italy for our thirtieth?”

“Mm.” Eyes still glued to the tablet.

“I was thinking maybe we could at least go to Cornwall? Havent had a proper holiday together in ages.”

“Cant, El. Ive got a major project on. Not a good time.”

A project. Theres always a project. Especially the past eighteen months, ever since Mark became suddenly obsessed with youth. Joined the gym, bought expensive trainers, swapped half his wardrobe. Even his haircut is trendy now swept fringe, shaved sides.

“Midlife crisis,” my friend Susan said. “They all get it. Passes eventually.”

It didnt. If anything, it got worse.

I slipped the ring on fit perfectly. After all these years, he at least remembered the size. The stones glittered, cold somehow.

“Very pretty,” I repeated, examining the gift.

“Yeah. Stylish setting. Modern design.”

That evening, we sat almost in silence over our special dinner. The cake came out perfect light, moist. Mark ate a slice, offered an absent-minded nice as always. I looked at him and wondered: when did my husband become a stranger?

“So whos the girl?” I asked, suddenly.

“What girl?” Mark lifted his eyes from his plate.

“The one who helped you choose such a youthful ring?”

“Whats she got to do with anything?”

“Mark,” my voice perfectly calm, “Im not stupid. A woman picked this. No man says modern design about a ring.”

A pause. Heavy, awkward.

“El, dont be ridiculous.”

“Is her name Chloe?”

Mark paled. Didnt even try to ask how I knew. Which meant I was right.

“I happened to see your messages. A month back, when you asked me to find your insurance number on your phone. Sunshine, well see each other soon, sound familiar?”

He said nothing.

“Twenty-eight years old, works at your office. She posted a photo yesterday from that same restaurant, at the window table. Recognised your suit jacket on the chair.”

“How do you know about the restaurant?”

“Susan saw you. By chance. You think people dont notice around here?”

Mark sighed deeply.

“Fine. Yes, Chloe exists. But its not what you think.”

“What is it then?”

“She understands me. Its simple with her, interesting. We talk about books, films.”

“And with me theres nothing to talk about?”

“El, look at yourself! Its always the kids, health, the price of groceries. But with Chloe I feel alive.”

“Alive,” I echoed. “I get it.”

“I didnt mean to hurt you.”

Mark lowered his head.

“Does she know youre married?”

“She does.”

“And she’s ok with that? Comfortable being with a married man?”

“El, shes a modern woman. No illusions.”

“Modern,” I snorted. “So what is thirty years of life with you pure illusion?”

I got up and began clearing the plates. My hands trembled, but I tried not to let it show.

“El, lets talk properly.”

“Theres nothing left to say. You made your choice.”

“I havent chosen anyone!”

“You have. Every day. When you come home late. When you lie about business trips. When you buy her presents with my money.”

“Our money!”

“Mine too. I work as well, remember?”

I washed the dishes, lined them up on the rack. Put away the special tablecloth in the cupboard. Everything as usual. Only my hands still shook.

“What do you want, El?” Mark asked, leaning in the kitchen doorway.

“I want to be alone. Tonight. Think.”

“And tomorrow?”

“I dont know.”

For two days, I stayed silent. Mark tried to talk got polite monosyllables in reply. On the third day, he snapped.

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Whats the problem?” I asked, ironing his shirt. “Im still doing everything. Cooking, cleaning, laundry. Same as always.”

“But you wont talk to me!”

“Why bother? Youve got Chloe for conversation.”

“El!”

“What? You said yourself Im boring, nothing to say. Theres no point forcing it.”

He went out that night. Said he was seeing friends. I knew he was seeing her.

I sat at my computer, opened Chloes social profile. Pretty, young. Holiday snaps from fancy places, stylish clothes, flutes of champagne.

One post from yesterday: “Life is beautiful when youre with someone who truly values you.” And hashtags love, happiness, matureman.

Mature man. I almost laughed. That hashtag like a label on a product.

Her friends commented: “Chloe, whens the wedding?”, “Youre so lucky!”, “What does his wife think?”

Chloe replied: “Their marriage is just formal. They live like roommates.”

Thirty years like roommates.

The next morning, I made an appointment with a solicitor. Young chap in glasses listened intently.

“I see. Joint assets will be split equally. House, holiday home, car. If we prove adultery, you could claim a larger share.”

“I dont need a larger share,” I told him. “Fair is enough.”

At home, I made a list:

House sell, split fifty-fifty.

Holiday home for him. I wont set foot there again.

Car for me. He can buy a new one.

Bank accounts split.

Mark came in late and found my list on the table.

“Whats this?”

“Divorce.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No. Ive finally come to my senses.”

“El, I explained! Its just a phase, a crush. Itll pass!”

“And if it doesnt? Should I wait another thirty years until youre over it?”

Mark sat down on the sofa, buried his face in his hands.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

“What do I do now?”

“Choose,” I said. “Family, or Chloe. Nothing else.”

For three months, we lived like actual flatmates. Mark moved to the box room. Only spoke when necessary. I signed up for English classes, joined the pool, started reading again.

Chloe called now and then, tearful. Mark would pace the balcony, whispering for ages.

One evening he came home early. Sat facing me.

“Ive ended it with her.”

“Why should I care?”

“El, Ive realised… Im an idiot. Made an awful mistake.”

“Agreed.”

“Can we try again? Ive changed.”

I put my book down.

“Mark, you didnt break it off because you value me. You did it because she bored you. And in another year or two therell be a new Chloe.”

“There wont.”

“Oh, there will. Because you havent lost me youve lost your youth. Nothing I can do about that.”

“El…”

“Divorce papers are ready. Sign.”

He signed without arguments or fuss over property. I only took what Id set out to.

Six months later I met Edward my age, widower, teaches English. We met at evening classes. He took me to the theatre.

“You know, Ellen,” he said over coffee after the show, “I really enjoy talking to you. Youre so interesting.”

“Really? My ex-husband found me boring.”

“He simply didnt know how to listen.”

Edward listened. Appreciated my thoughts, laughed at my jokes, shared stories about himself without pretending to be younger than he was.

“And what do you admire in women?” I asked once.

“Intelligence. Kindness. genuineness. What about in men?”

“Honesty. And someone who’s unafraid of growing older.”

We both laughed.

Mark phones occasionally. Sends greetings for holidays, asks about my health. Like old acquaintances.

“So, are you happy?” he asked one time.

“Yes,” I replied, with certainty. “And you?”

“I dont know. Probably not.”

“Well, we all make our choices.”

I still keep that five hundred pound ring. I never wear it just tucked away in my jewellery box. A reminder of how thirty years can be so easily undervalued.

Edward gave me an antique brooch for my birthday found at a London market, inexpensive, but chosen with genuine affection.

“Beauty isnt about price,” he said. “Its in the feeling behind the gift.”

And I realised after fifty, life doesnt end. It truly begins again.

What do you think? Is it really possible to start from scratch in your fifties? Id love to hear your thoughts.

“Your Wife Is Getting Too Full of Herself. Teach Her How to Behave,” Demanded Max’s Mother-in-Law – Marina, my housewarming party’s tomorrow! I’ve invited so many people, and you know, the new flat is still completely unfurnished. Can you help me out? “Of course, Mrs. Newton,” replied Marina, though she’d planned her own relaxing weekend. And so it began: canapés for thirty guests, Caesar salad, mixed meats, a fruit arrangement, decorating the lounge, arranging the furniture. Just imagine: on Friday evening, instead of a romantic dinner with her husband, Marina made a trip to Tesco. Saturday from six in the morning meant prepping food… in someone else’s home. “Max, at least help me set out the chairs!” Marina pleaded with her husband. “But you know better what looks nice,” he shrugged, scrolling through his phone. By three o’clock, Mrs. Newton’s flat was transformed: a lavish buffet in the lounge, everything beautifully arranged, flowers set out just so. Marina looked at her work and felt utterly drained. The first guests arrived promptly at four: Mrs. Newton’s colleagues, neighbours from her old house, girlfriends. Everyone embraced the hostess, admired the flat, and handed over glittery housewarming gifts. Marina hovered in the kitchen, slicing lemons. “Where’s your daughter-in-law?” one guest asked. “She’s busy in the kitchen, of course,” Mrs. Newton waved dismissively. “Marina! Come in and say hello!” Marina came out, smiled, greeted everyone. “Oh, your daughter-in-law is so caring!” cooed a woman in an elegant suit. “You can see she’s got golden hands!” “Yes, I’ve brought up Marina well,” Mrs. Newton laughed smugly. “Now I have a dependable helper.” And then… things got even more interesting. There wasn’t a chair for Marina. “Sorry, dear Marina – you won’t have time to sit anyway,” Mrs. Newton said apologetically. “Better keep an eye on the food, serve the plates.” Marina nodded. What else could she do? So there she was, standing off to the side, almost like a waitress. Serving snacks, pouring champagne, clearing away empty napkins. Meanwhile, at the table: lively stories, laughter, toasts. “Remember, Mrs. Newton, that time at your old job—” began a colleague. Marina listened silently to their memories of a life she wasn’t really a part of. “Marina, could you refresh the fruit?” Mrs. Newton called loudly. Marina retreated to the kitchen, washed grapes, set them out on a platter. “How lovely!” the guests all cheered. “Mrs. Newton, you’ve got a real artist helping out!” “Max was so clever to choose such a homely wife!” added the woman in the suit. “I bet dinner is always ready, and the house is perfect!” Everyone laughed. Max smiled proudly too. Proud of what, exactly? Having free help around the house? But the evening wasn’t over. The table talk got freer, the guests more relaxed, voices louder. “Nina, do tell us about how Max charmed all the girls at university!” giggled one of Mrs. Newton’s old friends. “Oh, let’s not reminisce!” Mrs. Newton brushed it aside coquettishly, but she loved the attention. Everyone laughed. Max turned pink, though he was used to his mum’s boasting. Marina stood by the side table, polishing glasses. No one cared about her presence – she was part of the furniture. Useful, but invisible. “And at university, girls queued up for Max!” Mrs. Newton gushed on. “The Dean even joked, ‘Max will end up a Casanova!’ He turned out just as predicted! Before Marina, there were so many romances!” “Alright, Mum,” Max tried half-heartedly to stop her. “What’s wrong with that? Marina knows she’s not the only one,” laughed Mrs. Newton. “A man should know life! Otherwise, how will he build a family?” The woman in the suit nodded: “Exactly, Nina. It’s good for women too – a husband with experience is a blessing.” “Precisely!” Mrs. Newton agreed. “And Marina’s so calm. Not at all jealous!” All eyes turned to Marina, waiting for her to confirm she really was “calm.” Marina nodded. What alternative was there? “Marina, how did you and Max meet?” the neighbour asked cheerily. Marina opened her mouth but Mrs. Newton answered first: “At the bank! He’d just become a manager, she was a consultant. You could see straight away – a very serious and responsible girl.” Responsible. As if recommending her for a job. “I told Max: pay attention to that one. Not flighty, homely. Good for a family!” Just imagine – being described like merchandise. “Good for a family.” “And you made the perfect choice!” the woman in the suit exclaimed. “She’s a real grafter! Organised this whole housewarming, cared for everyone.” “Goes without saying,” Mrs. Newton confirmed. “I could tell straight off she was fit for family life. Not like today’s selfish girls who only think of themselves!” And now for the worst part – Max stayed silent. He didn’t protest. Didn’t say “Mum, enough.” He just sat and listened as his wife was discussed like a pedigree horse at auction. “When are the babies planned?” inevitably, someone asked. “Nina, aren’t you dreaming of grandchildren?” Mrs. Newton sighed wistfully: “I’d love some! But young people keep putting it off – work and all that. Time’s ticking!” Marina felt her cheeks burn. This topic stung. She and Max had been trying for nearly two years. She’d been seeing doctors, taking vitamins. So far everything looked fine, but every month brought fresh disappointment. “Well, it’s their private business,” said the neighbour tactfully. “Of course!” Mrs. Newton agreed. “But I hint every week – it’s time! Years go by, I want grandbabies!” Marina pressed her lips together. Hinted? She asked every week: “Any good news yet?” And Marina always blushed and mumbled apologies. “And maybe they’re not ready?” suggested another guest carefully. “Not ready?!” Mrs. Newton scoffed. “We were already having kids at their age! This new idea of not being ready… maternal instinct hasn’t disappeared!” Marina drifted over to the window. “Marina, dear!” called Mrs. Newton. “Don’t mope – come here, we’re discussing important things!” Marina stood beside Max’s armchair. “Just look at Max’s docile wife,” Mrs. Newton went on. “You ask – she delivers. Not like some modern girls, always complaining.” “And what rights does a wife have?” the woman in the suit mused. “Main thing’s keeping your husband happy and the family thriving.” “That’s right!” another guest agreed. “Women’s happiness is in their family and children.” Marina heard their talk grow tighter inside her. They spoke about her, not to her. “Nina, remember Max’s first serious girlfriend?” one guest piped up. “I think her name was Jenny?” “Oh, don’t remind me!” laughed Mrs. Newton. “Pretty, but what a temper! Always had to have her say, always argued. Not a wife – a punishment! I said to Max back then: ‘Son, think carefully. Do you really need such a shrew?’” Max fidgeted awkwardly but didn’t speak. “And you did right!” said the woman in the suit. “A mother knows best about her son’s match. Otherwise he’d be miserable for life!” “Marina, could you bring more ice?” Mrs. Newton asked. Marina nodded and went to the kitchen. She stood, staring at the ice cubes. Suddenly she realised: she wasn’t a guest. She was the help. Marina stood in the kitchen, bucket in hand, staring out at the evening. Lights twinkled on other balconies – people living their own lives. From the lounge came a happy chorus, someone singing karaoke. All were joining in. “Marina!” Mrs. Newton called. “Where’s the ice? And could you start the coffee?” Marina flicked the machine, grabbed the ice bucket, went to the lounge. “Here’s our little worker-bee!” the woman in the suit announced. “Marina, why so serious? Lighten up and join in!” “She’s tired is all,” Mrs. Newton waved away. “Been on her feet all day. But it’s fine – a woman must do it all. That’s how it is!” “Of course!” the neighbour chipped in. “The man must earn!” “Don’t I earn money too?” Marina asked quietly. Everyone turned. The room fell silent. “Sorry, dear?” Mrs. Newton said, baffled. “I said – don’t I earn money too?” Marina repeated, louder. Max frowned: “Marina, what’s this about?” “About Aunt Gal’s words – ‘The man earns, he deserves a break.’ Well, what about me?” The guests exchanged glances. Nobody saw this coming. “Well, you do earn, of course…” the woman in the suit said gently. “But it’s different.” “How is it different?” “Well,” she hesitated. “You’re a consultant. Max is a project manager – more responsibility.” “I see. So my job isn’t really a job? And the housework’s still mine. So I work at the office and at home. Max just works in the office, but he’s the one who gets to rest.” A heavy silence settled. “Marina, what are you saying?” Max asked, annoyed. “I’m saying,” Marina put the bucket on the table, “I spent two days preparing for this party. Shopping, cooking, decorating. And today I’ve been working non-stop. Yet not even a seat at the table for me.” “We didn’t mean—” Mrs. Newton tried to explain. “We just miscalculated.” “Miscalculated,” Marina agreed. “Didn’t think about me. Because I’m just staff here.” “Marina!” Max snapped. “Stop it!” “Stop what? Speaking the truth?” “Calm down, Marina,” a guest urged. “Just nerves.” “Enough of this show!” Mrs. Newton scolded. “Distracting people with drama!” “But it’s fine to discuss my family life with everyone? Fine to mention I haven’t had kids, fine to talk about Max’s exes?” Mrs. Newton paled. “I didn’t mean to—” “You talked about Jenny. You said good thing she left because she had opinions. And everyone agreed – good thing Max’s wife is so convenient now.” Marina looked at each person. “You know what? Jenny was right! She shouldn’t have let herself become a free helper!” “What are you talking about?” Max got to his feet. “What helper?!” “Know what I wished for today?” Marina continued, quietly. “I wished you’d say, ‘Meet my wife. She works in a bank, she’s clever and talented.’ Instead everyone said, ‘So handy. So docile. Just right for family life.’” “Marina, come on now,” Max began. “Come on? What – because you were silent! Silent when your mum called me convenient, silent when Aunt Gal lectured about a wife’s place, silent while everyone poked into my life!” Her voice shook. Tears that she’d been fighting all evening finally came. “You know what? I’m tired of being convenient!” Marina wiped her eyes. “Sorry for ruining your party. But I’m done playing the ideal daughter-in-law.” She headed for the door. “Marina, wait!” Max shouted. “Where are you going?” “On the balcony. For fresh air,” she said plainly, not stopping. “You can keep celebrating. Just without your waitstaff.” The balcony door closed. Behind it, muffled voices and music continued. Here, under the English night sky, Marina could finally be herself. She cried. Marina stayed on the balcony for more than an hour. First crying – from hurt, shame, relief. Then she dried her tears and watched the lights of London. Inside, voices continued, quieter now: Max and Mrs. Newton. “I don’t understand what’s come over her!” Mrs. Newton exclaimed. “To do that in front of everyone!” “Mum, maybe she’s got a point,” Max replied, unsure. “A point?! She shouted at her elders! Ruined our party!” Marina listened. “She did work all day, though.” “So what? In my youth, I worked too! Didn’t complain! Family means work, Max. Women must know their place.” Marina smiled bitterly. Even after everything, Mrs. Newton hadn’t understood. “Still—” “No ‘still’! You need a firm talk. Explain to her how a wife must behave. Or she’ll really get out of hand.” Marina opened the door and entered. Max and Mrs. Newton were amid dirty dishes. “A firm talk is a good idea,” Marina said calmly. They jumped. “Marina, dear,” Mrs. Newton started in a cajoling tone. “Don’t take it so to heart, we didn’t mean—” “I know,” Marina nodded. “You’re just not used to me speaking up.” “Let’s talk about it at home,” Max pleaded. “No. What started here, ends here.” Marina sat in a guest’s chair. “Max, I’m going to my parents’ tomorrow. For a week. I need to think.” “What is there to think about?” Max sounded panicked. “Whether I want to live in a family where I’m not valued.” “Don’t be dramatic, Marina.” “It’s not drama,” she said quietly. “It’s a choice. Either things change, or I change my life.” Mrs. Newton scoffed: “Young people! Straight to ultimatums!” “Max, if you care about our marriage – think it over. Not about how to ‘put me in my place’ but about why your wife cried on the balcony while your mother received congratulations.” A week later, Max came to Marina’s parents’ kitchen, nervously twisting his wedding ring. “Marina, please come home. Things will change.” Marina looked at him for a long moment. “Alright. We’ll try.” She never cried at family parties again. Because she’d learned to stand up for her right to respect.

My Husband Was Supporting His Ex with Our Money – So I Gave Him an Ultimatum From the very beginning, I knew about his ex-wife. He never hid the fact that he’d been married before, had a daughter, and paid child support every month. I even thought it was right — admirable, actually. I respected him for being responsible. But, slowly, I realised something more alarming: What I saw as responsibility was actually a painful sense of guilt. Chronic, exhausting, relentless. Guilt that hung over him like an invisible cloud… and someone knew exactly how to take advantage. The monthly payments went out regularly. The sums were decent. But alongside those, there was a whole world of “extras”. A new laptop for school because the old one was slow and all the kids had nicer ones. My husband sighed… and bought it. An expensive spot on a language camp, because otherwise his daughter might fall behind her classmates. Again, he agreed — even though the cost was as much as our entire summer holiday. New Year’s presents, birthday gifts, a treat for no reason, the poshest, most expensive, most dazzling. Because “Dads should always be generous.” His ex-wife knew exactly how to play him. She would call, using that faintly suffering tone: “She’ll be so upset… you understand? I can’t manage on my own.” And he understood. He understood so intensely he stopped seeing reality around him. The reality he shared with me — the one with our plans, dreams, and future together. But the money for that future was dripping away, bit by bit, into a past that refused to leave. I tried to reason with him. “Don’t you think this is too much? She has everything. Meanwhile, we’ve gone two months without a washing machine. Wake up…” He looked at me, guilty. “She’s just a child… I can’t say no. They say these years are tough. I have to support her.” “But what about my self-worth? Our life?” I asked, sharper now. He looked confused. “What, are you jealous? Of a child?” It wasn’t jealousy. It was fairness. We were living in a constant state of emergency — always funding someone else’s “urgent need,” which never seemed to end. Our washing machine had been dying for ages. It rattled, jumped, stopped mid-cycle. I dreamed of a normal, quiet one. I’d put money aside from my salary, found one on sale, set a day to buy it. I could already imagine loading the laundry and not worrying about it breaking down. That morning, he was strangely silent, pacing, as if looking for something on the floor. Just as I was about to grab my purse, he said, “I… took the money… for the washing machine.” My fingers went cold. “You did? Where did you take it?” “For my daughter. It was urgent… dental work. My ex called late, panicked, said the child was in agony and needed a private specialist, which was really expensive… I couldn’t say no…” I leaned against the door frame. “And… is she cured now?” “Yes, yes!” he brightened, as if the worst was over. “It all went great. They said it went perfectly.” I looked at him for several seconds and quietly said, “Call her now.” “What? Why?” “Call her. Ask how your daughter is… and which tooth hurt most.” He frowned, but dialled. The conversation was brief. As he listened, I watched his face change – from confidence to discomfort. He hung up. “Well… she’s fine now. The pain’s gone.” “Which tooth?” I repeated. “It doesn’t matter…” “Which tooth?” My voice sounded harsh, almost unfamiliar. He sighed. “They said… actually, it wasn’t pain. It was planned. Whitening treatment. Apparently, it’s allowed at that age. She’d been waiting for it all year…” At that moment, I just turned and sat down on the kitchen chair. The money for our normal life… had gone toward teeth whitening, just because someone decided it was ‘necessary’. And the worst bit? He hadn’t even wondered. Hadn’t double-checked. Just handed it over. Because guilt makes you a lousy judge… but a great target for emotional blackmail. Afterwards, a frozen silence settled over our home. I barely spoke to him. He tried to “make it up” with little gestures, but it was like sticking a plaster on a gaping wound. I finally understood – I wasn’t fighting his ex-wife. I was fighting the ghost he carried inside. The ghost of a failed marriage. The constant belief that he “hadn’t done enough.” That he “had to make up for it.” That ghost was always hungry. It demanded fresh sacrifices: money, time, nerves, dignity. The breaking point came at his daughter’s birthday. Despite my feelings, I bought a nice, thoughtful, but modest book – one she’d mentioned wanting. The impressive gifts were from “mum and dad”: a new phone, the sort only the richest kids have. His ex was dressed magazine-style. She greeted guests like a hostess. Smiled sweetly… but was sharp as a blade. When gift time arrived, and his daughter picked up my book, the ex announced loudly, to the whole room, “There you go, darling – those who really love you give what you dream of,” pointing to the shiny present. “And this…” nodding scornfully at my book, “is just from some ‘auntie’. Just… for show.” The room froze. All eyes turned to me. Then to my husband. And he… said nothing. Didn’t defend me. Didn’t correct her. He did absolutely nothing. He stared at the floor. At his plate. Deep down somewhere. Shrunk, hunched, as if hoping to disappear. His silence was louder than a slap. It was agreement. I endured the party with a stony face. Smiled, nodded… but inside, something was finished. Not a crisis. Not a pause. The end. When we got home, I didn’t make a scene. Scenes are for people still fighting. I went to the bedroom, took the old dusty suitcase from the top of the wardrobe – the one my husband brought when he moved in. And started packing his clothes. Slowly. Methodically. No trembling. Shirts. Trousers. Socks. All arranged. He heard, entered, and froze when he saw the suitcase. “What are you doing?” “I’m helping you pack,” I said calmly. “What? Where am I supposed to go? Is this about today? She’s always like that…” “It’s not about her,” I interrupted. “It’s about you.” I packed the last item. “You live in the past. Every penny, every thought, every silence – is stuck back there. But I live in the present. In a present where we can’t afford a washing machine because you spend money on someone’s teeth-whitening whims. In a present where I’m humiliated in public and my husband stares at the floor.” I zipped the suitcase, stood it up. Looked him in the eye. “Go on. Go to her. Help with everything: teeth, tutoring, her endless dramas and manipulations. Atone for your guilt if you must. But do it there, not here. Make space.” “What space?” “The space for a husband in my life. Right now, that’s occupied – by the ghost of another woman. And I’m done sharing my bed, my money, and my future with him.” I carried the suitcase to the front door and left it there. He picked it up… and left. I didn’t look back. For the first time in ages, I felt the air was mine. That my home was mine. That my soul finally had space for itself. Two months later, our marriage was officially over.