**A Wife Without Status**
I stood in front of the hallway mirror, smoothing my hair and giving myself another critical once-over. The new dress—dark blue, understated but elegant—fit like a glove. Heeled shoes, matching handbag. Perfect for meeting my husband’s colleagues.
“James, I’m ready!” I called toward the study.
“Coming!” came his reply, but the muffled sounds of his phone conversation told me he wasn’t moving anytime soon.
I sighed. Late again. I’d wanted to make a good impression—these were the people James worked with now, at his new firm. Three months since he’d been promoted to deputy director, yet I still felt out of place at corporate events.
“Sophie, listen—” James finally appeared, buttoning his blazer as he walked. “Simon and his wife will be there. You remember him? Influential bloke. Lot rides on his opinion. Try to get on with his wife, yeah?”
“Of course,” I nodded. “What does she do?”
“No idea, really. Housewife, maybe. Or something with charities. You’ll figure it out.”
He was distracted, already thinking ahead. I stayed quiet.
The restaurant was softly lit, muted music in the background. A large table was already half-full. James went straight to the men, leaving me to find my seat among the wives.
“You must be Sophie?” A polished woman in her fifties, dressed impeccably, smiled at me. “I’m Eleanor, Simon’s wife. James mentioned you.”
“Lovely to meet you,” I said, offering my hand. “What did he say?”
“Oh, just how wonderful you are. Supportive, devoted.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes assessed me.
I sat beside her, tension creeping in. The other women were all similar—elegant, affluent, at ease.
“What do you do, Sophie?” asked a slender brunette named Anna.
“I’m a translator. Freelance, mostly technical manuals.”
“How fascinating,” Eleanor said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “Which languages?”
“French and German.”
“No children yet?”
“Not yet.” My cheeks heated. That question always tripped me up.
“Plenty of time,” a plump blonde chimed in. “I’ve raised three—all grown now. The eldest is in finance, lives in New York.”
The conversation flowed predictably—children, holidays in the Maldives, designer purchases. I listened, chiming in occasionally, feeling more and more like an outsider.
“Sophie, which agency do you work with?” Anna asked suddenly.
“Different clients. I’m independent.”
“Ah, freelancing.” She nodded. “Must be nice, working from home. Though income must be unpredictable?”
“It’s steady enough,” I said, sharper than intended.
“Of course.” Eleanor’s smile was perfectly empty. “The girls and I run a charity foundation. Orphanages, fundraising—it’s so rewarding. Would you like to join?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said carefully.
“Just know it requires time. Regular events, meetings. All of us are fortunate—our husbands provide, so we can focus on giving back.”
I nodded, the message clear. I wasn’t one of them. If I had to work, I couldn’t be a proper corporate wife.
“Sophie, everything alright?” James appeared, hand on my shoulder.
“Lovely evening,” I forced a smile.
“James, your wife is delightful,” Eleanor purred. “We’ve been persuading her to join our foundation.”
“Brilliant!” James beamed. “Sophie, you’ve wanted to do something meaningful, haven’t you?”
I stared at him. When had I said that? I’d been complaining about workload.
“I said I’d think about it,” I repeated.
“Of course, take your time,” Eleanor said smoothly. “Though there’s a small monthly donation—five hundred pounds. Peanuts for our circle.”
I nearly choked on my wine. Half my monthly income.
“Hardly anything!” James waved it off. “Sophie, you must join. For the children!”
The rest of the evening blurred. I smiled, conversed, but my mind raced. I remembered when we’d bought our flat—how proud I’d been of our joint achievement. But now James saw me as an accessory, not a partner.
At home, I retreated to the bedroom, removing my earrings. James loosened his tie, collapsing onto the bed.
“So? What did you think? Eleanor’s impressive, isn’t she? That foundation—perfect for networking.”
“Why do I need networking?” I turned to him. “I have my own work.”
“What work, Sophie? Sitting at home translating? It’s not a career. This is about status.”
“Status as *your* wife?”
“What’s wrong with that?” He stood, rummaging for pajamas. “Those women are happy. Charities, travel, interesting people. They live well.”
“On their husbands’ money.”
“So? Husbands earn, wives spend. That’s how it works. I’ll support you, Sophie. Quit if you like.”
I sank onto the bed, head in hands. How to explain that work wasn’t just money—it was dignity? Independence?
“James, I won’t be a trophy.”
“What achievements, Sophie?” He laughed, sharp. “Translating manuals? That’s not achievement.”
The words stung. I locked myself in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub. Five years ago, he’d been a junior manager in a tiny flat. I’d taken any translation job, worked twelve-hour days. We’d been equals. Now he looked down on me.
The next morning, James left without breakfast. I sipped coffee, watching the world outside—commuters, parents, pensioners. My phone rang.
“Sophie? It’s Eleanor.”
An hour later, we sat in a café. Her expression had softened.
“Last night, I saw how uncomfortable you were. I understand why.” She stirred her tea. “I was like you once. Worked as a senior accountant. Loved it.”
“What happened?”
“Simon was promoted. Earned ten times my salary. I was told: career or status. I chose status.” She met my eyes. “Regret it every day.”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because I won’t let you make my mistake. James looked at you last night the way Simon once looked at me—*Why do you need this? You have me.*”
Her honesty was a relief. She even confessed—under Simon’s radar—she ran a small consulting business disguised as charity work.
“And the foundation?”
“Oh, it’s real. Donations are fifty pounds, not five hundred. I wanted to see James’ reaction. He didn’t flinch. Tells you everything.”
That evening, James was in high spirits.
“Simon adores you! Invited us to their country house this weekend.”
“Sounds lovely,” I said evenly.
“Decided about the foundation?”
“Yes. On my terms.”
He blinked. “Which are?”
“I’ll translate for their projects—pro bono, but as a professional.”
“Fine, I suppose.”
At the weekend, I spoke about my work confidently. No condescension—just interest.
“Sophie,” Simon said, “we need a translator for German clients. Fancy it?”
James gaped. “But—she’s freelance.”
“Good work is good work,” Simon shrugged.
On the drive home, James was quiet.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Didn’t expect Simon to offer you a job.”
“Why not?”
“Just thought you’d focus on the foundation.”
“James,” I said softly, “do you love me for *me*?”
“Of course! You’re beautiful, clever—a great wife.”
“And if I stayed home, would you love me more?”
“What? No! It’d just be… easier. More proper.”
“Proper,” I echoed.
That night, I lay awake. Status versus selfhood—I knew my answer.
Next morning:
“I’m taking Simon’s offer. And James? I won’t be a wife without status. I’ll have my own.”
He paused at the door. “Is being *my* wife not enough?”
“It’s not enough to just be yours. I need to be *me*.”
A long silence. Then: “We’ll figure it out.”
Alone in the kitchen, I watched the sunrise. For the first time in months, I looked forward to the day—not as James’ wife, but as myself.
