The Wife Without Status
Miranda checked herself in the hallway mirror, smoothing her hair one last time. The dark blue dress—elegant, tailored, but understated—fit perfectly. Low heels, a matching clutch. Just right for meeting her husband’s colleagues.
“Gareth, I’m ready!” she called toward the study.
“Coming!” came the reply, but the muffled conversation from behind the door told her he was still on the phone.
She sighed. Late again. She’d tried so hard to make a good impression on these people Gareth now worked with. Three months since his promotion to deputy director, and she still felt like an outsider at these corporate events.
“Listen, love,” Gareth finally appeared, buttoning his jacket on the way. “Simon and his wife will be there—remember him? He’s a big deal. Try to get on with her, yeah?”
“Of course,” Miranda nodded. “What does she do?”
“Dunno, really. Housewife, probably. Or does some charity thing. Just chat with her, you’ll work it out.”
He spoke distractedly, already thinking of something else. Miranda swallowed her questions.
The restaurant was dimly lit, soft music floating beneath the murmur of well-dressed guests. Gareth disappeared into a circle of men, leaving her to find her place among the wives.
“You must be Miranda?” An elegant woman in her fifties, clad in an expensive tailored suit, smiled. “I’m Eleanor. Gareth’s told us about you.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Miranda extended a hand. “What exactly did he say?”
“Oh, the usual. That you’re brilliant, supportive. The perfect wife.” Eleanor’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Miranda sat, tension tightening her shoulders. The other women were all Eleanor’s age—polished, poised, their laughter rich with unspoken familiarity.
“What do you do, Miranda?” asked a sharp-featured brunette.
“Freelance translator. Mostly technical documents.”
“How fascinating,” Eleanor said, though her tone suggested otherwise. “Which languages?”
“French and German.”
“I see. Any children?”
“Not yet.” Miranda’s cheeks warmed. That question always trapped her.
“Oh, plenty of time!” chimed in a plump blonde. “I’ve raised three myself. My eldest is in finance—lives in Singapore now.”
The conversation rolled predictably onward—schools, holidays, designer purchases. Miranda nodded along, chiming in occasionally, feeling more out of place by the minute.
“Which agency do you translate for?” the brunette asked suddenly.
“I work independently.”
“Ah, freelancing.” A knowing glance. “Must be nice, working from home. Though I imagine the pay’s inconsistent?”
“It’s enough,” Miranda said, sharper than intended.
“Of course,” Eleanor’s smile was polished steel. “We’ve just started a charity foundation—helping children’s homes, organizing galas. Rewarding work. You should join us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Mind you, it does require commitment. Events, meetings. All of us have the time—our husbands provide, after all.”
Miranda understood. She didn’t belong. No time for charity meant no place among wives of successful men.
“Everything alright?” Gareth appeared, hand on her shoulder. “Getting on with everyone?”
“Wonderful,” she forced a smile.
“Miranda’s lovely, Gareth,” Eleanor purred. “We’re recruiting her for the foundation.”
“Brilliant!” He beamed. “You’ve wanted to do something meaningful, haven’t you?”
Miranda stared. When had she ever said that?
“I’ll consider it,” she repeated.
“Of course,” Eleanor nodded. “Though there are dues—just £500 monthly. Pocket change for our circle.”
Miranda nearly choked. Half her income on a good month.
“Peanuts!” Gareth waved dismissively. “You should join, love. Think of the children!”
The rest of the evening blurred. She smiled, spoke, but her mind raced. She remembered flat-hunting last year—how proud she’d been of their new life. Now it felt like Gareth wanted an accessory, not a partner.
At home, she unclasped her necklace, his voice cutting through the silence.
“Eleanor’s sharp, isn’t she? This foundation—perfect for you to network.”
“Why would I need that? I have my work.”
“Work?” He laughed. “Sitting at home translating manuals isn’t a career. This is status, Miranda.”
“Status as your wife?”
“What’s wrong with that?” He gestured impatiently. “Look at those women. Charities, travel, beautiful lives!”
“On their husbands’ money.”
“So? Husbands earn, wives enjoy. Normal, isn’t it? I’ll provide. You could quit tomorrow.”
She gripped the edge of the bed. How to explain work wasn’t just income—it was self-respect?
“I won’t be your decoration, Gareth. I’ve built something.”
“Built what?” His laugh stung. “You paraphrase appliance manuals! Where’s the achievement in that?”
The words burned. She locked herself in the bathroom, recalling their early days—both struggling, dreaming together. Now he looked down on her.
The next morning, Gareth left without breakfast. Over coffee, Miranda watched the world through the window—ordinary people living ordinary lives. Her phone rang.
“Miranda? Eleanor. Fancy a chat?”
An hour later, over tea in a quiet café, Eleanor’s gaze was unexpectedly kind.
“I saw how uncomfortable you were last night. I’ve been there.”
Miranda waited.
“I was an accountant. Loved it. Then Simon’s promotions started. I was given a choice—career or wife. I chose wrong.” Eleanor stirred her tea absently. “At first it’s glamorous. Then you realize you’re just an extension of him.”
“Why tell me this?”
“Because last night, I saw how Gareth looked when you mentioned work. That same look—‘Why bother? You have me.’”
Miranda’s throat tightened.
“So what do you suggest?”
“Don’t disappear. You’ve talent. Value it. Real status comes from achievement—not borrowed glory.”
Eleanor confessed to secretly running a small consultancy under the guise of charity.
“Is the foundation real?”
“Of course. The dues are £50, not £500. I wanted to see Gareth’s reaction. He didn’t flinch. Tells you everything.”
That evening, Gareth was oddly cheerful.
“Simon’s invited us to their country house! Eleanor adores you.”
“Lovely.”
“Decided about the foundation?”
“Yes. On my terms—translating for their projects. Professionally.”
He hesitated. “…Fine, I suppose.”
At the weekend, Miranda spoke freely about her work, her expertise. Simon leaned in.
“We need a translator for German contracts. Would you consider it?”
Gareth blinked. “But she freelances.”
“And?” Simon smiled. “Skill is skill.”
On the drive home, Gareth was quiet.
“Didn’t expect Simon to offer you a job.”
“Why not?”
“Just thought you’d prefer the foundation life.”
She studied him. His disappointment wasn’t in her—but in his own failed vision.
“Gareth, why do you love me?”
“Wh—? You’re beautiful, clever, a perfect wife.”
“If I quit everything, would you love me more?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? It’d just be… easier. More fitting.”
“Fitting.” The word settled like ash.
That night, she lay awake, weighing convenience against selfhood. She already knew the answer.
Next morning, as Gareth left, she said, “I’m taking Simon’s offer.”
“Your choice.” His voice wavered.
“And Gareth? I won’t be a wife without status. I’ll have my own.”
He paused at the door. “Isn’t being my wife enough?”
“It’s not enough to just be yours. I need to be me.”
After a long silence, he nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”
Alone in the kitchen, Miranda watched the sunrise. For the first time in months, she faced the day not as someone’s reflection—but as herself.
