“You’d ruin everything”: For years, my husband hid that wives were welcome at work parties.
You’d think there should be no secrets in a marriage. Especially the pointless ones. Yet my husband lied to me for years—calmly, confidently, almost casually. He claimed spouses weren’t allowed at his work events. “Company policy,” he’d say. I believed him. Didn’t push back, either. Never been one for loud gatherings, and after our son was born, I sank deeper into the rhythm of home.
Then the truth surfaced suddenly. 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 almost straight after the wedding; our boy’s four now. The years rushed by—nappies, sleepless nights, doctor visits. I went back to work as soon as I could. His mum helped with childcare, money got easier. I try to come home early, be present. But James… he’s always late now, sometimes dragging in at dawn, bleary-eyed. “Swamped at work,” he mutters.
Three years ago, he landed a good position at a proper firm. Better salary, twice what he made before. No more grumbling about bosses or colleagues. Just one thing gnawed at me: he never invited me to a single work do. Not the summer outings, not the Christmas party. “It’s not the done thing,” he’d insist. “Just colleagues. Nothing personal.”
I believed him. Wanted to believe. Because if he were hiding something, wouldn’t he just stay quiet? This way, it felt like honesty. Not that I had energy for parties anyway. My old friends—some married, some not—had moved on. We barely spoke. Life was just… tired. Weekends meant laundry, cooking, nursery runs, GP visits.
Then last week, I ran into an old schoolmate—Ella. We chatted, grabbed coffee, caught up. Turns out her husband works at the same firm as James. Small world, we laughed. I suggested meeting up Friday.
“Can’t,” she said. “Work do with my husband.”
I blinked. “You’re going?”
She frowned. “Course. Couples are always welcome.”
Something inside me turned to ice. I played along, joking about being forgetful, but my chest felt hollow. So he’d lied. All these years. Walking home, my feet barely touched the pavement. Not because of the party itself—but the lie. The shame of it—like I was something to hide.
At dinner, voice steady, I brought it up. “Funny thing—Ella’s going to your work party with her husband. Says it’s normal there.”
He froze. Glanced sideways. Poured tea, fiddled with his napkin—anything not to look at me.
“Well… that’s for the new lot. We’ve known each other ages.”
“You never invited me before. Three years isn’t new.”
A sigh. Eyes darting. Then the truth, sharp as a slap:
“I just wanted a night off. No couples. No ‘how’s the wife’ chatter. No one watching me, sober, judging. I’m tired. Wanted to unwind.”
It hit like a brick. So I’m the burden. With others, he’s himself—with me, he can’t relax. Am I ugly? Dull? Bad company? Or does he just think I’d spoil his fun?
The lie stung, but this—years later, tossed out like nothing—that was worse. I didn’t scream. Just decided: he won’t get an invite to mine. There’s a do next week. I’ll go alone. Dress sharp. Laugh, talk, dance.
Maybe not the perfect solution. But he’ll learn: this isn’t how you treat a wife. Not the one at parties. Not the one holding a sick child. We’re not enemies. But right now? I feel like a stranger. And strangers don’t get invitations.
