“You’d just ruin everything”: For years, my husband hid that wives could attend work parties.
You’d think there’d be no secrets in a marriage. Not ones so pointless, at least. Yet for years, my husband lied to me—coldly, smoothly, like it was nothing. He insisted his company had a strict “no spouses” policy at work events. I believed him. Never pushed. Crowded parties were never my scene, and after our son was born, I sank into the rhythm of home life.
Then the truth surfaced. And it didn’t just hurt—it made me a stranger in my own marriage.
James and I have been married just five years. I got pregnant almost right after the wedding—our son’s four now. The years blurred by in a haze of nappies, sleepless nights, and doctor’s visits. I went back to work as soon as I could. We had help from the grandparents, money wasn’t as tight. I made sure to be home early, present for our boy. James, though… He stayed out later and later, sometimes stumbling in at dawn, bleary-eyed, reeking of exhaustion. “Work’s mad,” he’d say.
Three years ago, he joined a proper firm. Better position, double the salary. No more complaints about his boss or coworkers. But one thing grated at me—he never once invited me to a work do. Not the summer barbeques, not the Christmas party. He always had the same line: “It’s just not done. No wives. Nothing personal.”
I bought it. Wanted to. Because if he were hiding something, wouldn’t he just dodge the question? This felt like honesty. Besides, I wasn’t exactly itching for a night out. My friends—some married, some not—had drifted away. Weekends were laundry, cooking, nursery runs.
Then, last week, I bumped into an old classmate, 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. “We’ve got the company do.”
I frowned. “You’re going?”
She blinked. “Course. It’s always couples.”
A chill shot through me. I played it off, mumbled something about being busy, but inside, everything collapsed. So he’d lied. All this time. I walked home numb. Not about the party—about the lie. The way it made me feel like something to be ashamed of. Like I wasn’t good enough to be seen.
At dinner, I kept my voice steady.
“Funny thing—Emily’s going to your work do with her husband. Says it’s normal.”
James froze. Glanced at me sidelong. Took his time pouring tea, fiddling with his napkin.
“New hires get that perk,” he muttered. “The rest of us, we’ve known each other years. It’s lads’ time.”
“But you never asked. Not once. Three years isn’t new.”
He sighed, looked away, then dropped it:
“I just wanted a night off. No couples, no ‘how’s the wife’ chat. No sober bloke getting nagged by his missus. I wanted to relax.”
It hit like a slap. So I was the problem. With others, he could be himself—with me, he couldn’t. Was I ugly? Boring? Bad company? Or did he just think I’d ruin his fun?
The lie stung, but this truth was worse—a spit in the face after years of silence. I didn’t scream. Didn’t argue. Just decided: he wouldn’t get an invite to my work party next week. I’d go alone. Dress sharp. Laugh, talk, dance.
It’s not the perfect revenge. But he’ll learn this much: you don’t treat your wife like this. Not the one at the party, not the one holding down the fort when the kid’s sick. We’re not enemies. But right now, I feel like one. And enemies don’t get invites.
