I used to think the phrase “work wife” was harmless. A cute little corporate joke. An exaggeration, at best. But after a year of hearing my husband, Chris, throw the term around like confetti at a wedding, I wasn’t laughing anymore.
Emily. Emily this, Emily that.
Emily knows the best lunch spots.
Emily keeps him so organized.
Emily understands the stress of his job in a way that I just couldn’t.
Oh, and my favorite line?
“She’s like my other half at work.”
Yeah. That one nearly got him a shoe thrown at his head.
The night I realized that this wasn’t a harmless thing, I was making dinner. I was making truffle risotto with seared scallops. It was one of Chris’s favorites, the kind of meal that made his eyes light up.
“God, Sabine,” he would say. “I don’t deserve you.”
I wanted to surprise him after another long workday. Honestly, all I wanted to do was have a good meal with my husband, maybe drink a glass or two of red wine, and cuddle with him.
That was it.
But he didn’t come home in time for dinner.
I was lounging on the couch, trying to find something to watch on TV when my phone lit up.
Running late. You don’t have to wait up.
No apology. No explanation.
I stared at the screen, something heavy settling in my chest.
“Well, there goes our dinner,” I said.
I dragged myself to bed, not even bothering with cleaning the kitchen. Chris could do that tomorrow morning. I was done trying to care for him now.
I put my phone down, then picked it up again. Nothing like a good scroll through the socials before I fell asleep. I opened Instagram, and while I knew that Chris rarely posted, I wanted to check on something…
So, I went to Emily’s stories.
There was a blurry Boomerang of two wine glasses clinking.
Much needed after today!
Then there was a wide shot of a restaurant, dim and intimate, candlelight flickering against wine glasses. And there, in the background of one photo, was Chris.
Laughing.
“What the hell, Chris?!” I shouted, sending a pillow flying to the ground.
That was our restaurant. The one we went to for anniversaries, for birthdays, for special us moments.
And now he was there, with her.
I stared at the photo, the lingering smell of the risotto, the scent of butter and garlic thick in the air… my stomach turned.
I wasn’t mad.
Not yet.
But I was something else. It was something quieter. Something heavy. Something that seemed to take root in my stomach and twist itself all along my insides.
I tried to picture the version of me from two years ago, the Sabine who wouldn’t have overthought this, who would’ve rolled her eyes and laughed it off.
But that version of me hadn’t been slowly pushed out of her own marriage yet.
That version of me hadn’t spent months feeling like an outsider in her own home.
And now, that version of me was gone.
The next morning, I woke to a spotless kitchen and the coffee machine ready and waiting to pour me a cup. Chris was gone.
“Nice try,” I muttered, getting a cup all the same.
I had heard him come in last night. I didn’t care enough to open my eyes. Instead, I just pretended that I was sleeping. When he kissed my cheek, I had to hold myself together to not kick him off the bed.
I was done.
Months passed without any explanation about Chris just skipping dinner that night. We spoke, but barely. There were hardly any romantic advances.
And you know what?
I was fine with that.
But then, when Chris was away on a business trip, I got a card in the mail. Naturally, I thought it was sweet and romantic. I thought that my husband was trying to get back in my good books. That he was finally seeing the cracks in our marriage.
