Liam decided to punish his wife, but in the end, he was the one left unwanted.
After Emily got a promotion at the bank, her whole attitude changed. Once quiet and easygoing, she turned sharp and irritable. Liam couldn’t wrap his head around it: “Why the sudden complaints? Things used to be fine.” She nagged him about never lifting a finger—why was she the one doing all the cooking, cleaning, and looking after their son? Liam didn’t see the issue. “What’s there to do in a three-bed semi in Liverpool? The shelves are up, the taps don’t leak. And cooking? That’s not a man’s job.” Once, he asked for a Sunday roast. She shot back, “Peel the potatoes, then I’ll cook it.” He snapped, “Do it yourself! You’re the woman here!”
Emily stayed late at work more often, and their son was always the last one picked up from nursery. Liam felt bad for the boy, but going himself? What if they asked him to shift the wardrobe or fix a pipe?
He convinced himself she didn’t appreciate him anymore. “What was the point of the promotion?” he grumbled. “If you’d just stayed quiet, everything would’ve stayed the same.” Emily calmly replied, “Then go back to the development team, get your own promotion, earn more—I’ll step back and cook your roasts. But we can’t live on two low salaries anymore. My mum helped before, now she’s got her own bills.” Liam just fumed. “Now she wants a new kitchen!”
Truth was, he had no ambition to climb the ladder. Seeing his boss work weekends, he’d say, “No thanks. I do my hours and go home.” But Emily’s nagging twisted something inside him. “Fine, if she wants to be the boss, let her see how lonely it gets.” He started staying late too. Then he struck up an affair with Sophie from accounting—plain but curvy, with a sweet voice and endless homemade pies.
Sophie had a young son, but Liam didn’t mind. With her, he felt valued: warm blankets, hot dinners, admiring looks. They met more often. Meanwhile, Emily’s mum started collecting their son from nursery—Emily was swamped with a big project. Liam smirked. “Good. If she won’t cook, I won’t starve. Sophie feeds me, praises me. Fair’s fair.”
But Sophie had conditions. If Liam showed up without chocolates, perfume, or cash for “something nice,” her mood cooled. Dinner got plainer, affection restrained. It unsettled him, but he lied to himself: “So what? She doesn’t want love—just attention and a bit of money. When Emily finds out I’m leaving, she’ll beg me back.”
Then Sophie, straight-faced, asked for cash for a new coat. Liam knew the game was up.
He stormed home, waited for Emily, and scowled. “Emily, enough. I’m the man here! I want dinner, a tidy house, fresh socks! You’re home before me—why can’t you make a decent meal? Or is washing up too hard?”
Emily wordlessly hung up her coat, dropped her bag, and sighed. “Is that all?”
“No!” he blustered. “I’m leaving! For a woman who actually respects me! My bags are packed—done!”
“Good,” she said flatly. “Go. I’m tired of living with a lazy whinger. Leave the house. I paid the mortgage alone. The solicitor will confirm you never put a penny in.”
Liam reeled. Where were the tears? The begging? He’d expected her to cling to him, not coldly tally the bills.
Heart pounding, he grabbed his bag and drove to Sophie’s. He knocked firmly. “Sweetheart, I’m yours now. For good!”
She opened the door, scanned him head to toe, and folded her arms. “Who said you could move in? I’ve got a kid, a tiny flat, a crap salary. You’re not a solution—you’re a drain. No cash? Piss off.”
The door slammed. And there he stood on the landing—bag in hand, pride shattered, completely alone. Unwanted by his wife. Unwanted by his mistress. For the first time in years, truly on his own.
