“You’d only ruin things,” he said.
For years, my husband lied—calmly, smoothly, almost casually—insisting that wives weren’t welcome at his company events. *Policy,* he called it. And I believed him. I never pressed. Never been one for crowded parties, and after our son was born, I settled into the steady hum of home: nappies, sleepless nights, the occasional fever.
The truth came suddenly. And it wasn’t just painful—it made me a stranger in my own marriage.
Oliver and I have been married five years. Barely a year in, I was pregnant. Our boy’s four now. Time blurred with baby wipes and missed sleep. I went back to work as soon as I could. His parents helped—money got easier. I tried to be home early, present. But Oliver? Later and later. Some mornings, he’d stumble in at dawn, bleary-eyed, muttering about deadlines.
Three years ago, he joined a proper firm. Better pay, senior role. No more complaining about his boss or colleagues. One thing gnawed at me, though: he *never* took me to the Christmas party. Not the summer garden gathering, not the New Year’s bash. *It’s just not done. No wives. Nothing personal.*
I believed him. Wanted to. Because if he had something to hide, he wouldn’t explain at all, right? This felt like honesty. And honestly—I didn’t miss the noise. My friends had their own lives—marriages, divorces, new flats—while mine narrowed to laundry and nursery runs.
Then, last week, I ran into Emily in Boots. Old schoolmate. We grabbed coffee. Small talk turned to shock—her husband worked at Oliver’s firm. *Small world*, we laughed. I suggested meeting Friday.
*“Can’t,”* she said. *“Company do with my husband.”*
I stared. *“You’re going?”*
She frowned. *“Yeah? We always go together.”*
Ice flooded my veins. I played along, laughed it off, mumbled something about being busy. But inside—collapse. *He’d lied.* For *years.* The walk home felt weightless. Not about the party. About the lie. About knowing he was *ashamed* of me.
Dinner that night. Voice steady, hands not.
*“Emily’s going to your Christmas thing. Says couples go all the time.”*
He stilled. A sideways glance. Reached for his tea, fidgeted with his napkin.
*“That’s—new hires. They make exceptions. My lot’ve known each other years.”*
*“You never asked. Three years isn’t new.”*
A sigh. Eyes averted. Then—
*“I just wanted a night off. No couples. No ‘how’s the wife’ chat. No being the sober one while you hover. I need to* relax.”
The words *hit.* So I was the burden. With others, he could breathe. With me? A chore. Too dull? Too plain? Or just—*embarrassing?*
The lie hurt. But this truth—flung at me after years—was a slap. No screaming. No scenes. But next week? My office party. I’ll go alone. Wear the red dress. Laugh too loud.
Maybe not the perfect revenge. But he’ll learn this: you don’t treat your wife like this. Not the one at home with a sick child. Not the one you hide.
We’re not enemies. But tonight? I feel like one.
And enemies don’t get invitations.
