**The Ideal Husband? How One Sentence Ended a Marriage of Indifference**
*”You’re the perfect husband, Edward” how a simple phrase destroyed a marriage built on apathy*
Emily walked through the front door, arms weighed down by two heavy shopping bags. No sooner had she stepped inside than a voice called out from the living room:
“Finally back? Its already six?”
“Its seven,” she replied tiredly, heading to the kitchen.
Three teacups on the table betrayed recent visitors. Her mother-in-law must have dropped by, likely with her sister Margaret. Emily wasnt even surprised. It had become routineunannounced visits, remarks about her “unladylike” ways, disapproving glances, and the lingering traces of strangers in her home.
“Where were you so long? Im starving,” Edward said, eyes glued to his laptop.
“At the supermarket. Feeding His Majesty,” she shot back dryly. “Actually, we need to talk.”
He ignored her. So she stepped closer, spun his chair toward her, and said calmly, “Were getting a divorce.”
Edward looked up, baffled. “What? Why?”
“Because Ive had enough.”
“Emily, just make dinner first. Well talk after. Im starving.”
“No. We talk now.”
“Look, you know I dont drink, I dont go out, I dont mess around. I stay home, I work. I earn good money. I never ask anything of you. What more do you want?”
She let out a bitter laugh. “You live in *my* flat. You dont pay rent or billsI handle all that. Shopping, cleaning, cookingstill me. So whats your money for?”
“Er I bought a jumper. Updated my game. Give a bit to Mum and Aunt Margaret sometimes. Thats normal, isnt it?”
“Of course. Perfectly normal. Except this morning, I asked you to hang up the laundry. Its still in the washing machine.”
“Was on my break”
“You know, switching tasks *is* resting.”
“But I dont know how. Mum and Margaret never let me near the cooker or hoover.”
“Right. You dont know how. Convenient, isnt it? Well, starting today, if youre hungryfigure it out. Im done cooking. Some friends invited me for coffee. Id said no, but now Im going. Good luck.”
She stood, hung the laundry, jabbed a hand toward the kitchen, and left. At the café, wine in hand, her phone buzzedher mother-in-laws number. She silenced it and turned the screen face-down.
When she returned, Patricia Whitaker was waiting in the flat.
“Emily! What on earths gotten into you?! A divorce?! You realise the man youve got?! You wont find another like him! Doesnt drink, doesnt cheat, doesnt leave socks lying about! Women envy him!”
Emily eyed her calmly. “You talk like youre selling a well-trained dog. Doesnt do anything wrongthats all you list. But tell mewhat does he actually do *right*? For *me*?”
“He works.”
“So do I. Except I also clean, wash, iron, cook, haul heavy bags, pay for everythingfor me *and* him. What does *he* do?”
“He buys you gifts! I help him pick them!”
“Oh, so thats why I got a foot spa for Christmas and a wool scarf for my birthday.”
“Expecting gold, are you?” her mother-in-law sneered.
“A spa voucher or weekend at the seaside wouldve been nice. But no. A scarf it is. And contempt. And the endless I dont know how. Im done playing his mother.”
“Men are like that. In our family, they dont do those things.”
“Exactly. You raised a man who expects to be waited on. And hes fine with it. Im not.”
“Couldnt you try before divorcing? Teach him”
“Sorry. Ive no interest teaching a grown man how to be one. I tried. For eighteen months. Not anymore. Pack his thingsyou can leave together. Im not cruel. Just exhausted.”
Half an hour later, a taxi idled outside the building.
