“You said today you married me because I was ‘convenient’!” she snapped. He shrugged. “Whats wrong with that?”
“Are you seriously wearing that old dressing gown again?” Max glanced at Sophie with disdain, adjusting his cufflinks as though preparing for battle.
She froze, the coffee mug in her hand. Steam curled up, scalding her fingers, but she didnt pull away.
“Its comfortable.”
“Yeah, convenient,” he scoffed, straightening his tie in the mirror. “Like everything about you.”
Sophie lowered her gaze. The coffee had stopped steaming. The surface had darkened, reflecting the ceiling like a cracked mirror.
“Max, you”
“What?” He jingled his keys, the metal clinking against his wedding ring.
“Nothing.”
The door slammed so hard the porcelain on the shelf rattled.
***
Theyd met at work. She was the quiet accountant who tied her hair in a messy bun; he was the confident manager whose laughter echoed down the corridors. Max had courted her with roses still damp from the florist, candlelit dinners where he ordered her steak medium-rare without asking what she liked.
“Youre not the type to fuss over little things, are you?” hed asked on their third date, smoothing the napkin on her lap.
“No,” Sophie had smiled, ignoring the warning bells.
“Good. My ex was always making scenes”
She hadnt thought much of it. Then came the wedding, the children, the house. Everything normal.
Except when she tried on a dress with bare shoulders, hed say, “Something simpler would suit you better.”
Or when she applied lipstick, hed mutter, “Why bother? Youre just staying home.”
Once, when she bought floral perfume, he wrinkled his nose. “Smells cheap. Like that auntie from accounting.”
She stopped wearing it.
For her birthday, he bought her a vacuum cleaner.
“The old one was wheezing,” he explained as she unwrapped it. “Youre always sighing when you clean.”
She thanked him. Then stared out the window until the kids called her to cut the cake.
But she stayed quiet. Because he was, after all, a good husband. Didnt drink, didnt hit her, brought home the money.
Wasnt that enough?
***
“Did you ever love me?”
The same evening. The same conversation. Max looked away, checking the window latch.
“Of course Youre the perfect wife.”
“Thats not an answer.”
He sighed, as though explaining basic arithmetic. “Sophie, why are you making a fuss? Everythings fine.”
“Fine?!” Her voice shook, not with tears but with fury finally breaking free. “You said you married me because I was ‘convenient’!”
“So? Whats wrong with that?”
She studied him like a stranger. The tan on his neckfrom tennis with colleagues, not her. The crease between his browsnot from worry, but irritation at having to justify himself.
“What about Kate?”
Maxs face twitched, as though tugged by an invisible thread.
“Whats she got to do with this?”
“You loved her.”
“Yeah,” he admitted sharply, and in that one word was more emotion than in all their years together. “But she wasnt wife material.”
Something inside Sophie snapped, like a broken heelshe could still walk, but not the same way.
“So I was the obedient replacement.”
“Dont be dramatic,” he waved, as if swatting a fly. “Weve got kids. A home. What more do you want?”
***
She hesitated.
Maybe he was right? Maybe love was a luxury, and family mattered more? Sophie stood by the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass. Her reflection showed smudgesshed been standing there so often lately, waiting for the world outside to give her an answer.
And Max? Max carried on as if nothing had changed.
A week later, seeing her silent acceptance, he stopped pretending altogether.
“Pasta again?” He prodded his fork, as if dissecting evidence of her inadequacy. “Couldve at least added seasoning.”
“You always said you hated spice,” she replied, her voice hollow.
“So what?” He pushed the plate away. “Kate always used to”
Sophie stood abruptly. The chair screeched, leaving another scratch on the flooranother invisible crack in their life.
“Go to Kate, then!”
“Dont be ridiculous,” he laughed, and the sound cut deeper than shouting. “Where would I go? You know Im comfortable with you.”
Thats when she finally understood.
He wasnt trying to keep her. Not because he trusted her love, but because he trusted her obedience.
She saw it everywhere now.
The way he no longer corrected her outfitsjust walked past without looking. The way his gaze slid over her, as though shed become part of the furniture. The way his “calm” days stretched into weeksno arguments, no complaints, just nothing.
And the most terrifying part? That nothing was louder than any scream.
Clutching the kitchen counter, she realised: he wasnt even angry. He was just waiting for her to accept it. Like shed accepted the vacuum cleaner. Like shed stopped wearing perfume. Like shed stopped being the type to “fuss over little things.”
Then something inside her shifted.
Not pain, not ragefreedom.
Because if someone doesnt love you but still gets angry, you still exist.
But if they stop caring altogether
Youre already gone.
***
A month later, she filed for divorce.
Max didnt believe it at first. He walked into the kitchen where Sophie was packing the childrens things and froze, as though facing a stranger.
“Youre serious?” For once, uncertainty edged his voice.
Sophie didnt look up, carefully folding tiny jumpers.
“Yes.”
“Over something this stupid?” He stepped forward, and she tensed.
“Its not stupid,” she said softly. “Im not furniture.”
He laughedsharp, nervous.
“Oh, here we go! You always overreact.”
Sophie finally met his gaze. His face was painfully familiar, but she saw it differently now: the tight lips, the narrowed eyeshe wasnt upset at losing her, but at his convenient world cracking.
“Im not overreacting,” she said. “Im just tired of being convenient.”
Max hesitated, then grabbed his keys.
“Fine! You think Ill struggle?” He eyed the boxes. “You cant even cook properly.”
She flinchedthe old, familiar sting. Once, those words wouldve made her doubt herself. Now, they rang hollow.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But someone else thinks differently.”
His face twisted.
“Oh, so thats it! Theres someone else, is there?” He smirked. “Look at yourselfwhod want you?”
The old ache tightened inside her. She almost said, “Youre right, Im sorry,” like she had a hundred times before.
But she didnt want to anymore.
“Me,” she said firmly. “I want me.”
Max stilled. He hadnt expected that.
“Youve lost it,” he hissed. “What about the kids? Dont you care?”
She closed her eyes briefly. The childrenshe thought of them every second.
“Theyll learn what self-respect looks like.”
“Bollocks!” He waved a hand. “Youre just selfish. Weve got a home, money And youll throw it away over nothing?”
Sophie looked at him and realised: he truly didnt understand. To him, it really was “nothing.”
“For you, maybe,” she said. “Not for me.”
He turned away, jingling his keys.
“Fine. Youll regret this.”
The day she collected the last of her things, Max suddenly asked:
“You really think youll find someone better?”
She paused at the door, feeling the breeze brush her face.
“Better?” she echoed. “I dont know. But at least someone who sees me, not an empty space.”
He said nothing.
And she stepped outside, where the air smelled like rain and freedom.
***
Two years passed.
Sophie married a man who kissed her shoulder every morning, even when she grumbled it was too early. Who whispered, “Youre beautiful,” when she was in an old dressing gown, hair tangled, dark circles under her eyes. Who once, seeing that same vacuum cleaner on sale, laughed and bought her peonies insteadjust because their colour reminded him of her lips.
She wore perfume again. Applied lipstick. Chose dresses with bare shoulders. And every time she caught her husbands admiring gaze, warmth spread through herlike something long frozen had finally thawed.
And Max?
She bumped into him once at a café. He sat alone in the corner, drinking coffee, scrolling through his phone. A slightly worn photo of their children lay on the table.
Sophie meant to walk past
