“It would ruin everything”: For years, my husband hid that wives could attend corporate events
You’d think there should be no secrets in a marriage. Especially pointless ones. Yet my husband lied to me for years—calmly, confidently, as if it were nothing. He claimed his company had a strict no-spouses policy at their work parties. Supposedly, it was just how things were there. I believed him. I never pushed—I was never one for loud gatherings anyway, and after our son was born, I settled into the quiet rhythm of home life.
But the truth came out suddenly. And it didn’t just hurt—it made me feel like a stranger in my own marriage.
Oliver and I have been married just five years. I got pregnant soon after the wedding, and our son is now four. Time flew by—nappies, sleepless nights, doctor visits. I went back to work as soon as I could. We had help from the grandparents, money wasn’t as tight, and I tried to come home early, to be present. Oliver, though… He stayed out later and later, sometimes stumbling in at dawn, bleary-eyed, mumbling about deadlines.
Three years ago, he landed a job at a well-respected firm—better position, twice the salary. He seemed happier, no more complaints about his boss or colleagues. But one thing nagged at me: he never once invited me to a company party. Not the summer outings, not the Christmas dinners. Always the same excuse: “It’s not the done thing. Spouses don’t come.”
I believed him. I wanted to. If he’d had something to hide, wouldn’t he just avoid the subject altogether? Instead, he’d been upfront. And honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for socialising. My friends—some married, some not—had their own lives. We drifted apart. Most of my weekends were washing, cooking, nursery runs.
Then, last week, I ran into an old schoolmate, Emily, at the chemist. We grabbed coffee, got chatting. Turns out her husband works at the same firm as Oliver. Small world, we laughed. I suggested meeting up Friday.
“Can’t,” she said. “Going to the company do with my husband.”
I blinked. “You’re allowed?”
She looked puzzled. “Of course—it’s always couples’ welcome.”
A cold weight settled in my chest. I forced a smile, muttered something about being busy, but inside, everything tilted. He’d lied. For years. I walked home numb, not because of the party, but the lie. The shame of it—like I was something to hide.
At dinner, I kept my voice steady. “Emily’s going with her husband. Says it’s normal at your place.”
Oliver stilled. Glanced at me sideways. Poured tea, fiddled with his napkin.
“It’s for the newer lot,” he said. “They make exceptions. We’ve all worked together so long—it’s different.”
“But you never asked me. Three years isn’t new.”
He sighed, avoided my eyes. “I just wanted to unwind. Without the small talk, without being the sober one while wives keep looking at their watches. I needed space.”
It felt like a slap. So I was the problem. With others, he could relax—with me, he couldn’t. Was I dull? Clingy? Not pretty enough? Or did he just assume I’d ruin his fun?
The lie stung, but the truth, dumped years late, was worse. I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just decided: next week, it’s my work party. I’ll go alone. Wear my best dress. Laugh, talk, dance.
Maybe it’s not the perfect solution. But he should know—you don’t treat a wife like that. Not the one in a dinner dress, not the one at home with a sick child. We’re not enemies. But right now, I feel like an outsider. And outsiders don’t get invited.
