“You’re the perfect husband, Tom”: how one phrase ended a marriage built on indifference
Emily walked in carrying two heavy shopping bags. The moment she stepped inside, her husband’s voice rang out from the living room:
“You’re back? Is it six already?”
“It’s seven,” she sighed, heading straight to the kitchen.
Three mugs sat on the table—meaning her mother-in-law had dropped by, probably with her sister, Brenda. Emily wasn’t even surprised anymore. Unannounced visits, comments about her “unladylike” habits, judgmental looks, and traces of other people’s presence in her kitchen were becoming the norm.
“Where’ve you been? I’m starving,” Tom said, barely glancing up from his laptop.
“At the supermarket. To feed His Majesty, obviously,” she shot back. “But actually, we need to talk.”
He stayed silent. She walked over, turned his chair to face her, and said calmly:
“We should get a divorce.”
Tom finally looked up, baffled. “What? Why?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
“Emily, maybe cook dinner first, then we’ll talk? I’m absolutely starving.”
“No. We’re talking now.”
“Look, you know I don’t drink, don’t go out, don’t fool around. I stay home, I work, I’ve got my own money. I never ask you for anything. What more do you want?”
Emily smirked. “You live in *my* flat, don’t pay rent or bills—I cover everything. Groceries, cleaning, cooking—all me. So tell me, what exactly does your money cover?”
“Well… I bought myself a jumper. Downloaded a game update. Send Mum and Aunt Brenda some cash now and then. That’s normal, isn’t it?”
“Oh, totally normal. Except this morning, I started the laundry and asked you to hang it up—it’s still sitting in the machine.”
“I was on a break—”
“You know, switching tasks *is* a form of rest.”
“But I don’t know how to do this stuff. Mum and Brenda never let me near the stove or the hoover.”
“Right. You ‘don’t know how.’ How convenient. Well, starting today—if you’re hungry, cook. I’m done. The girls invited me out for coffee—I’d said no, but I’ve changed my mind. Good luck.”
She hung up the laundry, gestured to the kitchen, and left. At the café, sipping wine, her phone buzzed—mother-in-law’s number. Emily silenced it and flipped it face-down.
When she got home, Rita was already there.
“Emily! What on earth are you doing? Are you mad? Divorce? Do you even realise what a catch you’ve got? Men like him don’t grow on trees! He doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat, doesn’t leave socks lying about! Women envy you!”
Emily just looked at her. “You talk about him like he’s a well-trained dog. You listed all the things he *doesn’t* do wrong. Can you name one thing he does *right*? For me?”
“He works!”
“So do I. But on top of that, I clean, cook, shop, pay all the bills—for both of us. What does he do?”
“He buys you gifts! I help him pick them!”
“Ah. That explains the foot spa for Christmas and the woolly scarf for my birthday.”
“Wanted diamonds, did you?” Rita sneered.
“I wouldn’t have said no to a spa day or a trip somewhere sunny. But no. I get a scarf. And disrespect. And endless ‘I don’t know how.’ I’m done being his mum.”
“Well, he doesn’t know. That’s not how men were raised in our family.”
“Exactly. You raised him to expect someone else to do everything for him. And he’s fine with that. But I’m not.”
“Maybe don’t jump straight to divorce? Teach him—”
“Sorry. I don’t want to teach a grown man how to be a man. I tried. For a year and a half. I’m done. Let’s pack his things—then you can both go wherever suits you. I’m not cruel. Just tired.”
Half an hour later, a taxi idled outside. Two bags, one suitcase. Tom trailed behind, laptop tucked under his arm.
Emily shut the door. Sat on the sofa. Took a deep breath. Wrote in her planner: *Divorce. Free at last.*
And for the first time in ages, she slept peacefully.
