“You’d ruin everything”: For years, my husband hid that wives were allowed at office parties
You’d think a marriage should have no secrets—especially pointless ones. Yet my husband lied to me for years—calmly, confidently, almost casually. He claimed his company had a strict “no spouses” policy at work events. I believed him. Didn’t push back, really. I was never one for loud parties, and after our son was born, I settled into the quiet rhythm of home life.
Then the truth came out. And it didn’t just hurt—it made me a stranger in my own marriage.
James and I have only been married five years. I got pregnant soon after the wedding, and now our boy is four. The years flew by in a blur of nappies, sleepless nights, and sick days. I went back to work as soon as I could. The grandparents helped, money got easier. I try to be home early, to be present. But James… he’s out later and later, sometimes stumbling in at dawn, bleary-eyed. Blames the “crunch” at work.
Three years ago, he landed a job at a prestigious firm. Better pay, double his old salary. No more grumbling about bosses or colleagues. Just one thing nagged at me: he never once brought me to a company party. Not the summer outings, not the Christmas do. Always the same line: “It’s not the done thing. Wives don’t come. Nothing personal.”
I believed him. Wanted to. Because if he were hiding something, he wouldn’t bother explaining at all, right? And life was busy. My old girlfriends—some married, some not—were wrapped up in their own worlds. We drifted apart. I was tired. No excitement. Weekends were laundry, meals, nursery runs, doctor visits.
Then, the other day, I ran into an old schoolmate—Emily—at the chemist’s. We got coffee, caught up. Turned out her husband worked at the same firm as James. Small world, we laughed. I suggested meeting Friday.
“Can’t,” she said. “Got the work do with my husband.”
I blinked. “You’re going?” She looked puzzled. “Course. It’s always couples. Why?”
Suddenly, my chest went icy. I played along, mumbled something about being busy, but inside, everything tilted. It meant he’d lied. All this time. I walked home in a daze. Not about the party—but the deceit. The shame of it. Like I was something to hide.
That evening, over dinner, I kept my voice steady.
“Funny, Emily mentioned she’s going to your office party with her husband. Said it’s normal there.”
He froze. Glanced at me sidelong, then fiddled with his tea, shredding a napkin, eyes darting away.
“Ah… that’s for new hires. They bend the rules. My lot’s been there ages—we keep it just us.”
“You never invited me. Three years isn’t new.”
He sighed, stared at the wall, and dropped it:
“I just wanted a night off. No ‘plus one.’ No couples’ small talk. No sober bloke watching his wife eye his pints. I’m knackered. Wanted to let loose.”
It hit like a slap. I was the problem. With others, he could be himself—with me, he couldn’t. Was I dull? Ugly? Bad conversation? Or did he just reckon I’d spoil his fun?
The lie stung, but the truth—after years—was a knife-twist. No screaming match. Just a quiet decision: next week, my office party? I’ll go alone. Dress sharp. Laugh loud, talk, dance.
Maybe not the perfect fix. But he’ll learn this: you don’t treat a wife like that. Not the one in heels at the bar, not the one holding a sick child at 3am. We’re not enemies. But right now, I’m a stranger. And strangers don’t get invited.
