“You’d ruin everything”: For years, my husband hid that wives were allowed at work parties
You’d think a marriage should have no secrets. Especially pointless ones. Yet my husband lied to me for years—calmly, confidently, almost casually. He claimed spouses weren’t allowed at his office parties. Said it was company policy. I believed him. Didn’t push. Never been one for loud gatherings anyway, and after our son was born, I wrapped myself in the rhythm of home.
Then the truth came out. And it didn’t just hurt—it made me a stranger in my own marriage.
Oliver and I have only been married five years. I got pregnant almost right after the wedding; our son’s now four. Time flew—nappies, sleepless nights, doctor’s visits. I went back to work as soon as I could. His mum helped; money got easier. I try to come home early, be present. But Oliver… He stays out later now, sometimes not stumbling in till dawn, groggy-eyed, slurring excuses about “crunch time at the office.”
Three years ago, he landed a job at a prestigious firm. Better position, double the salary. Less grumbling about bosses, colleagues. Only one thing gnawed at me: he never invited me to a single event. Not the summer retreat, not the Christmas do. Always the same line: “It’s not the done thing. No wives. Nothing personal.”
I wanted to believe him. If he’d meant to hide it, why explain at all? At least he’d been upfront. Besides, who had energy for parties? My friends—some married, some single—had their own lives now. We drifted. I was exhausted. Weekends meant laundry, meals, nursery runs, doctors.
Then, last week, I bumped into Lucy from school at the chemist. We grabbed a coffee, caught up. Turns out her husband works at Oliver’s firm. Small world, we laughed. I suggested meeting Friday.
“Can’t,” she said. “There’s the work do—James and I are going.”
I froze. “You’re going?”
She frowned. “Yeah? Couples always go together.”
The chill in my chest was instant. I played along, joked, muttered about errands—but inside, everything shattered. He’d lied. All this time. The walk home felt unreal. Not about the party itself. The lie. The shame of it—like I was something to hide.
That evening, over dinner, I kept my voice steady.
“Lucy’s going to your office party with James. Said it’s normal there.”
He stilled. Glanced sideways. Fiddled with his teacup, the napkin, his gaze darting away.
“New hires get leeway. We old-timers… it’s different.”
“You never asked. Three years isn’t new.”
A sigh. Averted eyes. Then the blow:
“I just wanted a night off. No ‘couple’ talk. No sober bloke with his missus policing him. I’m tired. I want to let loose.”
The words gutted me. So I was the problem. With others, he could be himself. With me? A burden. Was I ugly? Boring? Bad company? Or did he think I’d ruin his fun?
The lie was cruel. But the truth, after years? A slap. I didn’t scream. Just decided—next week’s office bash? I’m going alone. Dressing up. Laughing, talking, dancing.
Maybe not the perfect revenge. But he’ll learn: you don’t treat a wife like that. Not the one in heels at the party, nor the one nursing a feverish child. We’re not enemies. Yet tonight, I’m a stranger. And strangers don’t get invites.
