— Tom and Emily invited us over tomorrow,— Andrew announced over dinner, barely glancing at his wife.— We’re going.
— Should I bake something? Maybe an apple pie? It feels rude to show up empty-handed,— Sarah suggested.
— Don’t bother. Emily’s an excellent cook,— her husband dismissed her.— Just bring wine and fruit. That’s enough.
Sarah nodded, but inside, she seethed. No, she wasn’t a gourmet chef, and yes, life was hectic with their toddler demanding all her attention. But she tried—cooking, cleaning, juggling it all. Yet somehow, it went unnoticed.
She’d only met Emily once, briefly, at a work event. Now, she was expected to visit, as if on command, while Andrew dropped hints about how much better other wives were.
By Saturday evening, Sarah dressed up, styled her hair—it felt good to step out. They left their son with his grandma and headed over.
Emily and Tom’s flat was immaculate. Everything gleamed, smelling of roast chicken and fresh bread. Sarah glanced around—they had a child too, yet not a single toy or crumb in sight. And Emily looked freshly polished, as if she’d just left a spa.
— Your home is lovely,— Sarah said politely.
— And spotless,— Andrew added.— Not like ours. Sarah, you should take notes!
Everyone laughed—except Sarah. Her smile vanished, lips pressed tight. She wanted to leave right then, but manners held her in place.
Dinner was pleasant until Andrew started gushing over Emily—her cooking, her looks, how she even ironed Tom’s shirts.
— Now that’s a proper wife!— he exclaimed.— I could do with one like that!
— And what am I?— Sarah snapped.
— Oh, you’re fine… but Emily’s in a league of her own. Don’t take it to heart.
Sarah excused herself to the loo, locked the door, and cried. He compared her. Belittled her. And she’d given him everything.
She returned, forcing composure. But then Emily spoke up.
— Andrew, if you admire how I look, perhaps follow Tom’s example. He minds our son while I train, get facials, or shop. You leave Sarah to do it all, then complain?
Andrew faltered, trying to laugh it off.
— Well… not everyone’s perfect.
— Sarah could be, if she weren’t carrying the load alone,— Emily countered.— Maybe if you helped occasionally, your home would be tidy, and she’d have time for herself.
— Are you ganging up on me?— Andrew scowled.— I was just paying a compliment!
— No, you humiliated your wife. Repeatedly,— Tom cut in.— You didn’t even realise how much that hurt her.
— Sarah, tell them!— Andrew turned to her.— Explain it’s fine!
She met his gaze. Smiled, but her eyes were hollow.
— No, Andrew. It’s not fine. You demean me. Constantly. I’m tired.
— So now you’re against me too?— he hissed.— Let’s go. This is embarrassing.
— Call me if you need to,— Emily whispered as Sarah left.
In the cab, Andrew exploded. At home, he raged, accusing her: *They poisoned you! We were fine before!*
But Sarah didn’t shout. Didn’t defend herself. She simply prepared for the morning—when she’d file for divorce.
A month later, she was working. Their son started nursery. And for the first time, she breathed easy. No comparisons. No blame. The silence at home wasn’t emptiness—it was freedom.
Sometimes, walking away isn’t defeat. It’s the first step toward reclaiming yourself.
