*”You Never Get Anything Done!”: One Evening Opened Mary’s Eyes to the Truth*
—Tom and Emily invited us over for dinner, — Andrew announced at supper, 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, — suggested Mary.
—Don’t bother. Emily’s a brilliant cook, — her husband dismissed. — Just bring wine and some fruit. That’ll do.
Mary nodded, but resentment simmered inside. No, she wasn’t some gourmet chef, and yes, time was scarce—a toddler, everything on her shoulders. But she *tried*. She cooked. She cleaned. Funny how no one noticed.
She’d only seen Emily once before, at a company event, just a passing glimpse. And now, this—dragged to their home like an afterthought, with sly hints that other wives were somehow better.
Saturday evening came. Mary dressed up, styled her hair—it was nice to step out for once. They left their son with his grandmother and set off.
Emily and Tom’s flat was immaculate. Gleaming surfaces, perfect cosiness, the scent of roast chicken and fresh bread in the air. Mary glanced around discreetly—they had a child too, but not a single toy out of place, not a crumb on the floor. Emily herself looked like she’d just stepped out of a spa.
—Your home is so lovely! — Mary said politely.
—And spotless, — Andrew cut in. — Not like ours. Mary, take notes!
Everyone laughed—except Mary. The jab stung. Her smile faded, lips pressed tight. She wanted to leave right then, but manners held her in place.
Dinner conversation flowed easily until Andrew started gushing—Emily’s cooking, her flawless appearance, even how she ironed Tom’s shirts.
—Now *that’s* a proper wife! — he crowed. — I could do with one like her!
—And me? — Mary’s voice cracked.
—Oh, you’re… fine. But Emily’s in a league of her own. No offence.
Mary excused herself to the loo. Locked the door. Cried. He compared her. Belittled her. After everything she did for him.
She returned to the table, pretending nothing was wrong.
Then Emily spoke up.
—Andrew, if you like how I look so much, take a leaf out of Tom’s book. He minds our son while I go to the gym, salon, or shops. You leave Mary to manage everything alone, then complain?
Andrew floundered, tried to joke it off.
—Well… not all of us can be perfect.
—Mary *could* be, if she weren’t doing it all single-handed, — Emily shot back. — Maybe if you pitched in now and then, your flat wouldn’t be a tip, and she’d have time for herself.
—So it’s two against one now? — Andrew snapped. — I was just paying a compliment!
—No, you humiliated your wife. Repeatedly. Complimenting me isn’t an excuse to shame Mary, — Tom said coldly. — You didn’t even realise how much it hurt her.
—Mary, *tell* them! — Andrew turned to her. — Say it’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 ganging up on me?! — he hissed. — Let’s go. This is *embarrassing.*
—Call me if you need anything, — Emily murmured as Mary said goodbye.
In the cab, Andrew exploded. At home, he kept shouting. Accusations flew—*They poisoned you against me! We were fine before!*
But Mary didn’t shout. Didn’t defend herself. She just prepared for tomorrow—for the moment she’d file for divorce.
A month later, she’d found work. Their son started nursery. And she *breathed*. It was easier now. No comparisons. No blame. And the silence at home? Silence wasn’t emptiness anymore. It was freedom.
