**Diary Entry**
It’s funny how a marriage, built on trust, can unravel over something so trivial. Yet here I am, realising my husband lied to me—calmly, casually, for *years*—about something as simple as office parties.
Tom and I have been married five years. Shortly after the wedding, I got pregnant, and now our son, Oliver, is four. The years blurred into sleepless nights and rushed mornings. I returned to work as soon as I could—between Grandma Margaret and Grandma Ruth helping out, we managed. I always make it home early for Oliver. Tom, though… He stays out later now, sometimes not stumbling in until dawn, bleary-eyed, muttering about deadlines.
Three years ago, he joined a prestigious firm—better pay, better position. No more complaints about his boss or colleagues. Yet one thing never sat right: he never once invited me to a company event. Not the summer garden party, not the Christmas dinner. “It’s not done,” he’d say. “No spouses allowed. Just policy.”
I believed him. Or maybe I just wanted to. Because if he were hiding something, wouldn’t he avoid explaining at all?
Then I ran into Emily, an old schoolmate, at Boots. Over coffee, she mentioned her husband worked at the same firm. “Small world,” we laughed. When I suggested meeting up Friday, she hesitated. “Can’t—Tom’s taking me to their office do.”
I froze. “You’re going?”
“Course,” she shrugged. “They always welcome plus-ones.”
The ground dropped beneath me. Not because of the party—but the lie. All this time.
At dinner, I kept my voice steady. “Emily’s going to their work party. Says spouses are welcome.”
Tom stilled. Fiddled with his tea. “Well… that’s for new hires. We’re a tight-knit team.”
“You weren’t a ‘new hire’ three years ago.”
A sigh. Averted eyes. Then, finally: “I just wanted a night off. No couples’ small talk. No sober husband while his wife watches his every drink. I needed to unwind.”
The words stung. So I was the burden. With others, he could be himself—just not with me.
I didn’t argue. But next week, my office is throwing a party. And I’ll go alone. Dressed up, laughing, *enjoying myself*.
Maybe it’s petty. But he needs to learn: this isn’t how you treat a wife. Not the one in a cocktail dress at the pub. Not the one holding a sick child at 3 AM.
We’re not strangers. Yet tonight, I’ve never felt more like one. And strangers don’t get invited.
