“You’re the perfect husband, Robert”: How one phrase shattered a marriage built on indifference
Emily walked through the front door, her arms straining under the weight of two heavy shopping bags. The moment she stepped inside, her husband’s voice called from the living room:
“Back already? Is it six o’clock?”
“Half past seven,” she replied flatly, heading straight to the kitchen.
Three teacups sat on the table—a sign her mother-in-law had visited, probably with her sister Margaret in tow. Emily wasn’t surprised. Unannounced visits, snide remarks about her “unladylike” habits, and the lingering scent of someone else’s perfume were becoming routine.
“Where’ve you been all this time? I’m starving,” Robert said, eyes still glued to his laptop.
“Popped into Tesco. To feed His Majesty, of course,” she snapped. “But actually, we need to talk.”
Silence. She stepped forward, turned his chair to face her, and said calmly:
“We need a divorce.”
Robert looked up, baffled.
“What? Why?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
“Emily, maybe cook dinner first, then we’ll talk? I’m absolutely famished.”
“No. We talk now.”
“Look, you know I don’t drink, don’t cheat, don’t stay out late. I work from home, pay my way. Never ask you for a thing. What more do you want?”
Emily laughed drily.
“You live in my flat. You don’t pay rent, you don’t chip in for bills—I cover everything. Groceries, cleaning, cooking, all me. So tell me, what exactly are your wages paying for?”
“Well… I bought a jumper. Upgraded my gaming setup. Sometimes send Mum and Aunt Margaret a bit of cash. Perfectly normal, right?”
“Right. Perfectly normal. Except this morning, I asked you to hang the laundry—still in the washing machine.”
“I was on my break—”
“Switching tasks is also a break, you know.”
“But I don’t know how to do any of it! Mum and Margaret never let me near the cooker or the Hoover.”
“I know. ‘Clueless.’ How convenient. Well, starting today—if you’re hungry, cook. I’m not doing it. The girls invited me to the pub—I said no, but I’ve changed my mind. Good luck.”
With that, Emily hung the laundry, waved toward the kitchen, and left. At the pub, halfway through her wine, her phone buzzed—her mother-in-law’s number. She silenced it and flipped it face-down.
When Emily returned, Patricia Whitmore was already in her living room.
“Emily! What on earth are you doing? Have you lost your mind? Divorce? Do you realise what a gem you’ve got? Men like Robert are like gold dust! No drinking, no cheating, no socks on the floor! Other women envy you!”
Emily met her gaze evenly.
“You sound like you’re bragging about a well-trained spaniel. You’ve 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 work, I clean, cook, shop, scrub, and pay all the bills—mine and his. What does he contribute?”
“He buys you gifts! I help him pick them!”
“Ah. That explains the foot spa for Christmas and the woolly scarf for my birthday.”
“Expecting diamond earrings, were you?” Patricia sneered.
“A spa voucher would’ve been nice. A weekend away. But no. I got a scarf. And disrespect. And endless ‘I don’t know how.’ I’m done being his maid.”
“Well, he doesn’t know! In our family, men don’t do those things!”
“Exactly. You raised him to wait for others to do everything. And he’s fine with that. I’m not.”
“Maybe don’t rush into divorce? Teach him—”
“Sorry, but I won’t teach a grown man how to be an adult. I tried. Eighteen months. I’m done. Pack his bags—both of you can go where you’re appreciated. I’m not cruel. Just exhausted.”
Half an hour later, a taxi idled outside. Two suitcases, a holdall. Robert trailed behind, his laptop tucked under his arm.
Emily shut the door. Sat on the sofa. Took a deep breath. Opened her planner and wrote: “Divorce. Free.”
For the first time in years, she slept soundly.
