**Diary Entry**
It’s funny, isn’t it? You’d think there’d be no secrets in a marriage—especially ones so pointless. But my husband, James, lied to me for years—coolly, confidently, as if it were nothing. He insisted spouses weren’t allowed at his work parties, that it was company policy. I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never been one for loud gatherings, and after our son was born, I settled into the quiet rhythm of home.
But the truth came out suddenly. 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 fell pregnant soon after the wedding, and now our son, Oliver, is four. The years blurred by—nappies, sleepless nights, doctors’ visits. I went back to work as soon as I could. His parents and mine helped with childcare, so money wasn’t so tight. I try to be home early, to be there for Oliver. But James… he stays out later and later, sometimes stumbling in at dawn, exhausted and distant. Blames it on “crunch time” at the office.
Three years ago, he landed a job at a prestigious firm—better position, double the salary. No more complaints about his boss or colleagues. But one thing nagged at me: he never once invited me to a company event. Not the summer garden party, not the Christmas do. Always the same excuse: “It’s not the done thing. No spouses. Nothing personal.”
I believed him. Wanted to believe him. Because if he were hiding something, wouldn’t he just say nothing at all? At least this way, it felt like honesty. And honestly, I didn’t have the energy to argue. My friends—some married, some single—had their own lives. We drifted apart. I was tired. Weekends meant laundry, meals, nursery runs, doctor trips.
Then, the other day, I bumped into an old schoolmate—Emily—at the chemist. We went for coffee, started chatting. Turned out her husband worked at the same firm as James. Small world, we laughed. I suggested meeting up Friday.
“Can’t,” she said. “We’ve got the company party.”
I blinked. “You’re going together?”
“Well, yeah,” she frowned. “Why not? Couples always go.”
A chill settled in my chest. I played along, pretended I knew, made some excuse about being busy. But inside, everything twisted. So he’d lied. For years. I walked home numb—not because of the party, but the deceit. The slow, sickening realisation: he was ashamed of me.
At dinner that night, voice steady, I brought it up.
“Funny thing—Emily’s going to the work do with her husband. Says it’s perfectly normal.”
James froze. Glanced at me sideways. Then busied himself with his tea, fiddling with a napkin.
“Ah… that’s for new hires. They make exceptions. My lot have known each other ages.”
“But you never asked me. Three years isn’t ‘new.’”
He exhaled, eyes darting away. Then, the truth:
“I just wanted to unwind. No plus-ones. No ‘how’s the wife’ chatter. No sober husband while his wife side-eyes his drink. I needed to relax.”
The words stung. 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 assume I’d ruin his fun?
The lie hurt, but the truth, after all this time, felt like a slap. I didn’t shout. Didn’t argue. Just decided: fine. I won’t invite him to my office party next week. I’ll go alone. Dress up. Laugh, talk, dance.
Maybe it’s not the perfect solution. But he’ll learn this: you don’t treat your wife like this—not the one in a dress at a party, not the one at home with a sick child. We’re not enemies. But right now, I feel like a stranger. And strangers don’t get invites.
