“You said you married me because I was ‘convenient’ today!” she snapped.
He shrugged. “So? What’s wrong with that?”
“Are you seriously wearing that old dressing gown again?” Oliver shot Sophie a look of disgust, adjusting his cufflinks like he was armouring up for battle.
She froze, coffee cup in hand. Steam curled up in a thin wisp, scalding her fingers, but she didnt flinch.
“Hes convenient.”
“Yeah, convenient,” he snorted, straightening his tie in the mirror. “Just like everything about you.”
Sophie lowered her eyes. The coffee had stopped steaming. The surface was black, reflecting the ceiling like a cracked little mirror.
“Ollie, you”
“What?” He jangled his keys, the metal clinking against his wedding ring.
“Nothing.”
The door slammed so hard the porcelain on the shelf trembled.
***
They met at work. She was the quiet, mousy accountant who tied her hair in a messy bun; he was the loud, confident sales manager whose laughter echoed down corridors. Oliver wooed her with roses (still dewy, like theyd been plucked straight from a rom-com), candlelit dinners (where he ordered her steak medium-rare without asking what she liked).
“Youre not one of those women who whinge about little things, are you?” hed asked on their third date, smoothing the napkin on her lap.
“No,” Sophie had smiled, ignoring the alarm bells clanging in her head.
“Good. My ex was always making scenes…”
She shrugged it off. Then came the wedding, the kids, the houseall very *normal*.
Except when she tried on a dress with bare shoulders, hed say, “Stick to something more *you*.” Or when she applied lipstick: “Why bother? Youre just staying home.” Once, when she bought a new floral perfume, he wrinkled his nose: “Smells like a cheap shop. What, are you channelling Linda from HR now?”
She stopped wearing it.
For her birthday, he gifted her a vacuum.
“The old ones knackered,” he explained, watching her unbox 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, really, he was a *good* husband. Didnt hit her, didnt drink, brought home the bacon.
Wasnt that enough?
***
“Did you ever love me?”
Same evening. Same argument. Oliver glanced away, like he was checking if the window was latched.
“Of course I did. Youre the perfect wife.”
“That isnt an answer.”
He sighed, like shed asked him to explain rocket science.
“Sophie, why are you making a fuss? Were fine.”
“*Fine?!*” Her voice shooknot with tears, but with fury finally boiling over. “You said you married me because I was *convenient*!”
“So?” He shrugged. “Whats bad about that?”
She studied him like she was seeing him for the first time: that tan (from golf with mates, not holidays with her), that frown (not from stress, but irritation at having to justify himself).
“What about Emily?”
Olivers face twitched, like someone had yanked an invisible string.
“Whats *she* got to do with this?”
“You loved her.”
“Yeah,” he admitted sharplyand that one word held more feeling than their entire marriage. “But you couldnt build a proper family with her.”
Something inside Sophie snapped, quiet as a broken heel. You could still walk, but never the same way again.
“So Im the obedient, *practical* replacement.”
“Dont be dramatic,” he waved, swatting away her words like 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 smear the glass. Her fingerprints marked the paneshed stood there so often lately, as if waiting for the world outside to give her an answer.
And Oliver? Oliver carried on like nothing had changed.
A week later, seeing shed swallowed it again, he stopped pretending entirely.
“Pasta *again*?” He poked at his plate like it was evidence of her failure. “Couldve at least seasoned it.”
“You said you hated spicy food,” she replied, her voice hollow, like someone else was speaking.
“So what?” He shoved the plate away. “Emily always”
Sophie stood so fast her chair screeched, leaving a scratch on the flooranother invisible crack in their life.
“Want Emily? Go to her!”
“Oh, give over,” he laughed, and it cut deeper than a shout. “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 *submission*.
She noticed it everywhere now.
How he no longer “corrected” her outfitsjust walked past, unseeing. How his gaze slid over her, like she was part of the furniture. How his “calm” stretches lasted weeksno fights, no complaints, just *nothing*.
And the worst part? That *nothing* was louder than any scream.
Clutching the kitchen counter, she realised: he wasnt even angry. He was *waiting* for her to cave. Like she had with the vacuum. Like she had with the perfume. Like shed convinced herself she wasnt “the whinging type.”
Then something inside her *flipped*.
Not pain, not rage*freedom*.
Because if someone stops loving you but still gets angry? You still exist.
But if they stop caring at all
Youre already gone.
***
A month later, she filed for divorce.
Oliver didnt believe it at first. He found her in the kitchen, packing the kids clothes into boxes, and froze like she was a stranger.
“Youre *serious*?” His voice wavereduncertain for once.
“Yes,” she said, folding a tiny jumper without looking up.
“Over *this*?” He stepped forward; her shoulders tensed.
“Its not *this*. Im not a *furniture*.”
He laughedsharp, nervous. “Christ, the drama! You always overreact.”
Sophie finally met his eyes. His face was painfully familiar, but she saw it differently now: the tight lips, the narrowed eyeshe wasnt upset about losing *her*, but about his *comfortable* life cracking.
“Im not overreacting,” she said. “Im just tired of being *convenient*.”
He grabbed his keys. “Fine! You think Ill struggle?” A glance at the boxes. “You cant even cook properly.”
The old barb stung, but this time? It rang *hollow*.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But someone disagrees.”
His face twisted. “Oh, *thats* it! Youve got someone, havent you?” A sneer. “Look at youwhod even *want* you?”
The old ache flared. She almost said, *Youre right, sorry*, like she had a hundred times before.
But then she realised: she didnt *want* to.
“*Me*,” she said firmly. “I want me.”
Oliver blinked. He hadnt expected *that*.
“Youve lost it,” he hissed. “What about the kids? You selfish”
She closed her eyes. The kids God, she thought about them every second.
“Theyll learn what self-respect looks like,” she said.
“Bollocks!” He jingled his keys like a threat. “Weve got a house, moneyyoull throw it away over *nothing*?”
Sophie almost pitied him. He genuinely didnt understand.
“To you, its nothing,” she said. “To me? Its *everything*.”
When she moved the last box out, Oliver suddenly asked:
“You think youll find someone *better*?”
A breeze ruffled her hair as she paused at the door.
“Better?” She smiled. “Dunno. But someone who *sees* me, not just an empty space.”
He had no reply.
She stepped outside, where the air smelled like rain and possibility.
***
Two years later
Sophie married a man who kissed her shoulder each morning (even when she grumbled it was too early). Who whispered, “Youre gorgeous,” when she was in an old dressing gown, hair a mess, shadows under her eyes. Who once saw *that* vacuum on sale, laughed, and bought her peonies insteadjust because their pink matched her lips.
She wore perfume again. Lipstick. Dresses with bare shoulders. And every time her husbands gaze lingered, warmth bloomed in her chestlike
