“The Ideal Husband? When One Sentence Shatters a Marriage of Indifference”
“You’re the perfect husband, Oliver.” How a single sentence tore apart a marriage built on apathy.
Emily pushed open the front door, arms aching under the weight of two overstuffed shopping bags. Before she could even kick off her shoes, a voice called from the living room:
“Finally back? Its gone six already?”
“Its seven,” she sighed, exhaustion heavy in her voice as she trudged toward the kitchen.
Three teacups sat abandoned on the tableevidence of an unannounced visit. Her mother-in-law had been here, likely with her sister Beatrice in tow. Emily barely blinked. It had become routine: surprise drop-ins, disapproving remarks about her “unladylike” mannerisms, the lingering scent of someone elses perfume in her own home.
“Whereve you been? Im starving,” Oliver muttered, eyes glued to his laptop.
“At the supermarket. Feeding His Majesty,” she shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But actually, we need to talk.”
He ignored her. She stepped forward, swivelled his chair to face her, and said calmly, “Were getting a divorce.”
Oliver looked up, startled. “What? Why?”
“Because Ive had enough.”
“Emily, cant you just make dinner first? Well talk after. Im starving.”
“No. We talk now.”
“Look, you *know* meI dont drink, I dont go out, I dont mess around. I stay in, I work, I earn good money. I never ask you for anything. What more do you want?”
She let out a bitter laugh. “You *live* in my flat. You dont pay rent or billsthats *me*. The shopping, the cleaning, the cookingstill *me*. So what exactly is your money for?”
“Uh I bought a jumper. Upgraded my gaming subscription. Give a bit to Mum and Aunt Bea sometimes. Thats normal, isnt it?”
“Of course. *Very* normal. Except this morning, I asked you to hang the laundry. Its still in the washing machine.”
“I was on a break”
“Switching tasks *is* a break.”
“But I dont know how. Mum and Bea never let me near the cooker or the hoover.”
“I know. You dont know how to do anything. How *convenient*. Well, starting today, if youre hungry, sort it yourself. Im done. Some friends invited me for coffeeI said no earlier, but Im going now. Good luck.”
She hung the laundry, jerked a hand toward the kitchen, and left. At the café, wine in hand, her phone buzzedher mother-in-laws number. She silenced it and flipped the screen face-down.
When she returned, Margaret Holloway was waiting in her flat.
“Emily! What on earths gotten into you?! A *divorce*?! Do you realise what youve got?! Men like Oliver dont grow on trees! He doesnt drink, doesnt cheat, doesnt leave his socks lying about! Women *envy* you!”
Emily met her gaze, steady. “Youre talking about him like hes a well-trained dog. Doesnt do anything wrongthats your entire list. But can you name one thing he does *right*? For *me*?”
“He works.”
“So do I. Except I also clean, wash, iron, cook, haul heavy bags, pay for everythingfor *both* of us. What does *he* do?”
“He buys you gifts! I *know*I help him pick them!”
“Ah, so *thats* why I got a foot spa for Christmas and a scratchy wool scarf for my birthday.”
“Expecting *gold*, are we?” her mother-in-law sneered.
“A spa voucher or a weekend at the seaside wouldve been nice. But no. I get a scarf. And contempt. And that endless I dont know how. Im done playing mum to him.”
“Thats just how he is. In *our* family, men dont do those things.”
“Exactly. You raised a man who expects to be waited on. And hes fine with that. Im not.”
“Cant you at least *try* before divorcing? Teach him”
“Sorry. I dont *want* to teach a grown man how to be one. I tried. For a year and a half. Not anymore. Pack his thingsyou can leave together. Im not cruel. Just exhausted.”
Half an hour later, a cab idled outside the building.
