**A Status of Her Own**
Emily stood before the hallway mirror, smoothing her hair and giving herself one last critical glance. The new dress—dark blue, understated yet elegant—fit her perfectly. Her low heels and matching clutch completed the look, just right for an evening with her husband’s colleagues.
“James, I’m ready!” she called toward the study.
“Be right there!” came his reply, though the murmur of his phone conversation told her he wasn’t.
She sighed. Late again. And she’d tried so hard to make a good impression on these people, the ones James now worked with at his new firm. Three months had passed since he’d been promoted to deputy director, yet she still felt out of place at these corporate events.
“Em, listen,” James finally appeared, fastening his jacket as he walked. “Simon Bradley will be there with his wife—remember him? He’s a big deal, a real decision-maker. Try to get on with her, will you?”
“Of course,” Emily nodded. “What does she do?”
“Dunno, really. Housewife, I expect. Or some charity work. Just chat with her, you’ll figure it out.”
He spoke distractedly, already thinking of something else. Emily swallowed further questions and stayed quiet.
The restaurant welcomed them with soft lighting and muted music. A large table already hosted several couples. James made straight for the men, leaving Emily to find her place among the wives.
“You must be Emily,” said an elegant woman in her fifties, her tailored suit expensive. “I’m Margaret Bradley. James has told us about you.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Emily offered her hand. “What exactly did he share?”
“Oh, just in passing. How wonderful you are, how supportive.” Margaret smiled, but her gaze held something appraising.
Emily sat, sensing tension. The other women—all similarly polished, similarly aged—chatted effortlessly about children, holidays in the Maldives, designer purchases.
“And what do you do, Emily?” asked a slender brunette named Charlotte.
“I’m a translator. Freelance, mostly technical manuals.”
“How fascinating,” Margaret said, her tone suggesting otherwise. “Which languages?”
“French and German.”
“Ah. Any children?”
“Not yet.” Emily flushed. The question always unsettled her.
“Plenty of time!” chimed in a plump blonde. “I’ve raised three. My eldest is in banking—lives in New York now.”
The conversation slid into familiar tracks: schools, grandchildren, spa retreats. Emily listened, chiming in occasionally, feeling increasingly alien.
“And which firm do you translate for?” Charlotte asked suddenly.
“Various clients. I work independently.”
“Oh, freelance.” Charlotte nodded. “Must be nice, working from home. Though the income’s unpredictable?”
“It’s stable enough,” Emily replied, sharper than intended.
“Of course,” Margaret said with that empty smile. “A few of us run a charity fund—helping children’s hospitals, organising galas. Rewarding work! You should join us.”
“I’ll consider it,” Emily said carefully.
“Only, it does require time. Regular events, meetings. Most of us have the freedom—our husbands provide well.”
The implication was clear. Emily wasn’t one of them. She worked; she didn’t belong.
“Em, enjoying yourself?” James slid a hand onto her shoulder.
“Lovely,” she forced a smile.
“James, your wife is delightful,” Margaret purred. “We’ve invited her to our little charity circle.”
“Brilliant!” James beamed. “Em, you’ve wanted to do something meaningful!”
Emily stared. She’d said no such thing—she’d complained about her workload.
“Margaret mentioned membership fees,” Emily said evenly. “Five hundred a month.”
“Peanuts!” James waved it off. “You should do it. It’s for the kids!”
The rest of the evening blurred. Emily smiled, nodded, but her mind raced. She remembered flat-hunting last year, their shared joy at affording a better neighbourhood. She’d been proud when James was promoted. Back then, they’d been a team. Now, she realised, he wanted an accessory.
At home, she unclasped her earrings silently. James loosened his tie.
“Good night, wasn’t it? Margaret’s impressive. That charity—perfect for you to network.”
“Why would I need their network?” Emily turned. “I have my own career.”
“Career?” He chuckled. “You sit at home translating instruction manuals. That’s not a career. This is status.”
The words stung. She locked herself in the bathroom, sank onto the edge of the tub. Five years ago, they’d met as equals—James a junior manager, her a fledgling translator. Now he looked down on her.
The next morning, James left without breakfast. Emily lingered over coffee, watching the world outside—commuters, mothers with prams, retirees.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
“Emily? Margaret Bradley. Fancy a coffee?”
An hour later, over lattes, Margaret leaned in. “I saw how uncomfortable you were last night. I get it.”
Emily sipped her drink, wary.
“I was an accountant once. Loved it. Then Simon’s promotions started. I was given a choice: career or ‘wife of.’ I chose wrong.” Margaret’s eyes darkened. “You become an ornament. And if he leaves? What then?”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because I won’t watch you make my mistake. James’s face when you mentioned work—I’ve seen that look. ‘You don’t need this; you have me.’”
Emily’s throat tightened.
“Don’t surrender,” Margaret said. “You have talent. Real status isn’t borrowed—it’s earned.”
Later, she learned Margaret secretly ran a consultancy, disguised as charity.
“And the fees? Really five hundred?”
“Fifty,” Margaret grinned. “I tested James. He didn’t blink.”
That evening, James was buoyant. “Simon loved you! Invited us to their country house.”
“Splendid,” Emily said.
“Decided about the charity?”
“Yes. On my terms—I’ll translate for their international projects. Pro bono, but as a professional.”
James faltered. “Well… that’s something.”
At the weekend, Emily spoke confidently about her work—the complex translations, deadlines met. Simon listened intently.
“Actually,” he said, “we need a translator for German clients. Interested?”
James gaped. “But she’s freelance.”
“Quality matters, not employment type,” Simon said.
In the car home, James was silent.
“Something wrong?” Emily asked.
“Just… didn’t expect Simon to offer you work.”
“Surprised he values my skills?”
“It’s not that. I thought you’d prefer the charity life.”
“James,” she said softly, “why do you love me?”
“What? You’re beautiful, clever—”
“If I quit work, played the perfect corporate wife, would you love me more?”
He frowned. “It’s not about love. It’s… fitting the role.”
“Ah. The role.”
That night, she lay awake, weighing convenience against self-respect. The answer was clear.
Next morning, as James left, she said, “I’m taking Simon’s offer.”
“Fine. Try it.”
“And James? I won’t be a wife with no status. I’ll have my own.”
He paused. “Is being my wife not enough?”
“It’s part of me. Not all of me.”
He nodded slowly. “We’ll figure it out.”
Alone in the kitchen, Emily watched the sunrise. For the first time in months, she greeted the day not as someone’s wife, but as herself.
