“When Was the Last Time You Looked at Yourself in the Mirror?” Her Husband Asked—But His Wife’s Unexpected Reaction Changed Everything Alex finished his morning coffee, half-watching Marina. Her hair pulled back in a child’s scrunchie—little cartoon cats. But Kseniya from next door? Always bright, fresh, smelling of expensive perfume that lingered in the lift after she left. “You know,” Alex put aside his phone, “sometimes I think we live like… well, like neighbours.” Marina stopped, cloth frozen in her hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Oh, nothing. Just… when was the last time you looked in the mirror?” She looked at him, carefully. Alex felt things were going off script. “When was the last time you really looked at me?” Marina asked softly. Awkward silence. “Come on, Marina, don’t be dramatic. I’m just saying—a woman should look her best. Simple as that! Look at Kseniya, and she’s your age.” “Ah,” said Marina. “Kseniya.” Something changed in her voice—a revelation. “Alex,” she said after a pause, “you know what? I’ll stay with Mum for a bit. Have a think about what you said.” “Fine. Let’s live apart for now, think it over. But I’m not kicking you out!” “You know,” she hung the cloth up with care, “maybe I really do need to look in the mirror.” She went to pack her suitcase. Alex sat in the kitchen thinking, “Damn, isn’t this what I wanted?” Only, it didn’t feel like victory—just emptiness. Three days passed like a holiday. Coffee in the morning, evenings as he pleased. No romantic dramas streaming on TV. Freedom, right? Long-awaited manly freedom. One evening, Alex saw Kseniya at the entrance, hauling gourmet grocery bags, heels clicking, dress fitting perfectly. “Alex!” she smiled. “How are you? Haven’t seen Marina in ages.” “She’s at her mum’s. Resting,” he lied. “Ah.” Kseniya nodded knowingly. “You know, women need a break sometimes. From the routine, the housework.” She said it as if she’d never met a dust bunny—her dinner probably materialised at the snap of her fingers. “Ksenia, maybe coffee sometime? Neighbour-to-neighbour?” Alex blurted. “Why not?” she smiled. “Tomorrow evening?” That night, Alex planned his outfit—shirt or polo, jeans or trousers, not too much aftershave. Next morning, the phone rang. “Alex? It’s Mrs Vasilyeva, Marina’s mum.” His heart skipped. “Marina asked me to tell you: she’ll collect her things Saturday when you’re out. She’ll leave the keys with the concierge.” “Wait—collect her things?” “What did you expect?” her voice was steel. “My daughter won’t spend her life waiting for you to decide if she matters.” “I didn’t mean it like that—” “You said enough. Goodbye, Alex.” She hung up. Alex sat in the kitchen, staring at his phone. What the hell? He wasn’t divorcing—just asking for a pause, time to think. But apparently his family decided for him. Coffee with Kseniya felt odd. She was pleasant, stories about banking, laughed at his jokes. But when he reached for her hand, she gently drew away. “Alex, you know—I can’t. You’re still married.” “But we’re… living apart.” “Today, maybe. What about tomorrow?” Kseniya eyed him carefully. Alex walked her to the door, then upstairs. His flat greeted him with silence and the scent of bachelorhood. Saturday. Alex left home—no scenes, no tears, let her take the stuff in peace. But by three in the afternoon, curiosity gnawed at him. What did she take? Everything? Or just essentials? By four, he couldn’t stand it. He headed home. In front of the building—a car with local plates. At the wheel, a stranger, about forty, well-dressed, helping someone load boxes. Alex perched on the bench and waited. Ten minutes later, out came a woman in a blue dress. Dark hair, not a cartoon scrunchie but a stylish clip. Subtle makeup, made her eyes pop. Alex stared—was this Marina? His Marina—only not. She carried the last bag, and the man quickly helped her, like handling crystal. Alex couldn’t hold back. He walked over. “Marina!” She turned. Her face was calm, beautiful—no trace of the exhaustion he’d grown used to. “Hi, Alex.” “Is that… you?” The driver tensed, but Marina eased his arm—don’t worry. “It’s me,” she said simply. “You just stopped seeing me a long time ago.” “Marina, wait—can’t we talk?” “About what?” No anger, just surprise. “You said a woman should always look stunning. I listened.” “But, I didn’t mean it like that!” Alex’s heart thumped. “So what did you mean, Alex?” Marina tilted her head. “You wanted me beautiful—but only for you? Interesting—but only at home? To love myself, but not so much that I could leave a husband who doesn’t see me?” He listened and every word turned something inside him. “You know,” she continued gently, “I realised I had stopped taking care of myself. Not out of laziness, but because I’d become invisible. In my own home, my own life.” “Marina, I didn’t want—” “Oh, you did. You wanted a wife-invisible, who does everything but doesn’t disturb your life. And when you get bored—you can upgrade to a flashier model.” The man in the car said something quietly. Marina nodded. “We should go,” she told Alex. “Vladimir’s waiting.” “Vladimir?” Alex’s mouth went dry. “Who’s he?” “A man who sees me,” Marina answered. “Met him at the gym. There’s a new fitness centre near mum’s. Can you believe—it took me forty-two years to start working out for the first time?” “Marina, don’t—let’s try again. I get it, I was a fool.” “Alex,” she looked at him closely, “do you remember the last time you told me I was beautiful?” He couldn’t. “Or asked about my day?” Alex realised—he’d lost. Not to Vladimir or circumstance. To himself. Vladimir started the engine. “Alex, I’m not angry. Truly. You helped me learn something valuable: if I don’t see myself, no one else will.” The car pulled away. Alex stood by the entrance, watching his life drive off. Not his wife—his life. Fifteen years of “routine”, he thought. And only now did he realise it had been happiness. Only he’d never noticed. Half a year later, Alex bumped into Marina at the mall, by the coffee shelf. She was reading labels, suntanned, light blouse, new haircut. Next to her, a twenty-something girl. “Try this one,” she said. “Dad says arabica is better than robusta.” “Marina?” Alex approached. She turned, smiled—easy, relaxed. “Hi, Alex. Meet Nastya, Vladimir’s daughter. Nastya, this is Alex, my ex-husband.” Nastya nodded politely—pretty, probably a student, watching with curiosity, not hostility. “How are you?” he said. “Good. You?” “Alright.” Awkward pause. What do you say to your ex-wife, who’s changed so much? They stood by the coffee shelves. Alex looked at her—happy, truly happy. “And you?” she asked. “How’s your love life?” “Nothing special,” he admitted. Marina studied him. “You know, Alex—you want a woman as beautiful as Kseniya, as obedient as I was. Clever, but not so clever she catches you eyeing others.” Nastya listened, eyes wide. “That woman doesn’t exist,” Marina finished gently. “Nastya, let’s go?” the girl said. “Dad’s waiting in the car.” “Yes, of course.” Marina grabbed a pack of coffee. “Good luck, Alex.” They left. Alex stood among the shelves, thinking—she was right. He was chasing a woman who didn’t exist. That evening, Alex sat in his kitchen, sipping tea, thinking of Marina, how she’d changed. Sometimes, losing something is the only way to see its true value. Maybe happiness isn’t about searching for a convenient wife, but learning to truly see the woman standing beside you.

When was the last time you actually looked at yourself in the mirror? Tom asked his wife. Janes reaction was well, unexpected.

Tom was finishing his morning tea, half watching Jane as she wiped down the worktops. Her hair was pulled back in a scrunchie, one of those children’s ones with little cartoon cats on it.

There was their neighbour, Charlotte from the flat next door always immaculate, bright, smelling of expensive perfume that lingered in the lift long after she left.

You know, Tom put down his phone, sometimes I feel like were just flatmates.

Jane stopped, the dishcloth frozen in her hand.

What do you mean?

Oh, nothing really. Just when was the last time you looked in the mirror?

She looked at him, really looked. And Tom realised hed gone off script.

And when was the last time you bothered to look at me? Jane asked quietly.

The silence hung in the air.

Jane, dont get carried away, he tried. I just mean a woman should always look her best, shouldnt she? Its common sense! Just look at Charlotte. Shes the same age as you.

Ah, Charlotte, Jane replied, stretching out the name, voice calm but with a tone Tom hadn’t quite heard before. I see.

Something had shifted.

Tom, she said after a pause, how about this? Ill go stay at Mums for a bit. Think over what you said.

Alright then. Lets take a break for a while, think things through. But Im not throwing you out!

You know, Jane hung the cloth on its hook with great care, maybe youre right. Maybe I do need to look at myself in the mirror.

And off she went to pack a suitcase.

Tom sat quietly in the kitchen, thinking, Bloody hell, isnt this what I wanted? Only, it didnt feel like freedom. It felt hollow.

For three days, Tom lived like he was on holiday. Morning tea, no rush; evenings to do whatever he fancied. No one hogging the remote with romantic dramas and intrigue.

Freedom, you know? That much-hyped mans freedom.

One evening, he bumped into Charlotte outside. She was carrying bags from Waitrose, heels clicking, her dress fitting perfectly.

Tom! she smiled. How are you? Havent seen Jane in ages.

Shes at her mums. Having a rest, he lied, easily.

Oh? Charlotte nodded knowingly. Sometimes, we just need a breather. From housework, from routine.

She said it like shed never tidied a flat, as if her meals appeared with a snap of her fingers.

Tell you what, Charlotte, should we grab a coffee sometime? it blurted out suddenly. Neighbours and all.

Why not, she smiled. Tomorrow evening?

All night, Tom planned. Which shirt blue or white? Smart jeans or trousers? Dont go crazy with the aftershave.

But the next morning, his phone rang.

Tom? a voice he didnt recognise. Its Mrs Shepherd, Janes mum.

His heart missed a beat.

Yes, Im listening.

Jane asked me to let you know: shell collect her things on Saturday when youre out. Shell leave the keys with the building manager.

Wait, what do you mean, collect her things?

What did you expect? Mrs Shepherds voice was steely. My daughter isnt going to just sit around waiting for you to decide if she matters to you at all.

Mrs Shepherd, I didnt mean

You said enough. Goodbye, Tom.

She hung up.

Tom sat at the kitchen table, staring at the phone. What the hell was going on? He hadnt signed up for a divorce! Just a temporary break. Time to think.

Theyd made all the decisions without him.

Coffee with Charlotte was odd. She was lovely, wonderfully chatty about her job at the bank, laughed at his jokes; but when he reached for her hand, she gently pulled away.

Tom, you do understand I cant. Youre a married man.

But, were living apart right now.

For now. And tomorrow? Charlotte looked straight at him.

Tom walked her back to the front door, let himself in upstairs. The flat greeted him with silence and the distinct scent of single man.

Saturday arrived. He left on purpose, hoping to avoid tears, drama, explanations. Let her pack in peace.

But by three in the afternoon, curiosity had eaten him up. What did she take? Everything? Just the essentials? What did she look like?

At four, he gave in and headed home.

Outside, a car with local number plates was parked up. At the wheel a man in his forties, decent looking, nice jacket. Helping someone load up boxes.

Tom perched on the bench and waited.

Ten minutes later, out came a woman in a blue dress; dark hair neatly pinned back with a stylish clip not a feline scrunchie in sight. Subtle make-up, her eyes glowing.

Tom stared. It was Jane. His Jane. Only, utterly transformed.

She carried the last bag, and the man immediately took it, carefully helping her into the car, as if she were made of glass.

Tom couldnt hold back. He walked over to the car.

Jane!

She turned. He saw her face: calm, beautiful, minus that constant exhaustion hed somehow grown accustomed to.

Hello, Tom.

Is that you?

The man in the drivers seat tensed, but Jane soothed him with a touch: its alright.

Its me, she said softly. You just stopped really seeing me a long time ago.

Jane, wait. Can we talk about this?

About what? her tone was curious, not angry. You said a woman should look stunning. So I listened.

But thats not what I

What was it, then, Tom? Jane tilted her head. You wanted me to look good, but only for you. To be interesting, but only at home? To love myself, but not so much I could actually leave a husband who doesnt notice me?

He listened, word by word, feeling something turn over inside him.

You know, she went on, gently, I realised I had stopped making any effort. Not because I got lazy, but because Id just grown used to being invisible. In my own home, in my own life.

Jane, I honestly didnt mean

You did. You wanted a wife-invisible, who does everything but doesnt get in the way. And when youre tired of her, you can trade up for a shinier model.

The man in the car murmured something. Jane nodded.

We should go, she said to Tom. Davids waiting.

David? Toms mouth went dry. Whos that?

Someone who sees me, Jane replied. We met at the gym. Mums local centre opened up. Imagine at forty-two, I finally started working out.

Jane, dont, please. Cant we try again? I realise now, I was an idiot.

Tom, she looked straight at him, do you remember the last time you actually called me beautiful?

Tom couldnt answer. He couldnt remember.

Or even just asked how my day was?

He had lost not to David, not to fate, but to himself.

David started the engine.

Tom, really, Im not angry with you. Youve helped me see something important: if I dont see myself, no one else ever will.

The car pulled away.

Tom stood there, watching his whole life drive off. Not just his wife his life. Fifteen years hed called routine, but turns out, it had been happiness all along.

He just hadnt realised.

Six months later, Tom bumped into Jane by chance in John Lewis. She was reading labels on bags of coffee beans. Beside her stood a girl, about twenty.

Try this one, she was saying. Dad says Arabicas better than Robusta.

Jane? Tom stepped forward.

She turned and smiled easy, light.

Hello, Tom. This is Sophie, Davids daughter. Sophie, meet Tom, my ex-husband.

Sophie nodded politely. Pretty girl, student by the look of it, eyes curious but not unfriendly.

How are you? he asked.

Im fine. You?

Not bad.

Another awkward pause. What do you say to your ex-wife whos changed so much?

Standing among the coffee shelves, Tom studied her. Sun-kissed, light blouse, stylish haircut. Happy. Genuinely happy.

And you? she asked. Hows the love life?

Nothing much to report, he admitted.

Jane looked at him, searchingly.

You know, Tom, you want a woman who looks like Charlotte, but is as meek as I used to be. Smart, but not so much that she sees you eyeing up others.

Sophie listened wide-eyed.

That woman doesnt exist, Jane finished calmly.

Jane, shall we go? Sophie chipped in. Dads waiting in the car.

Yes, of course. Jane tucked the coffee under her arm. Take care, Tom.

Off they went. And Tom just stood in the aisle, realising Jane was right.

That evening he sat at his kitchen table with a cup of tea, thinking of Jane, how shed changed. Sometimes, losing something is the only way to realise what it was worth.

Maybe, happiness isn’t about finding a convenient wife. Maybe its about finally learning to see the woman next to you.