Why Did I Trade My Wife for Another Woman?
So Im doing the washing up. Yet again. Those plates had been piling up in the sink for three days straight. Couldnt even find a clean mug for tea. I kept thinking, and waiting, and thinking What choice did I have? Came home from the office I was starving, absolutely knackered, and, to top it all, in a right mood. And before I could even have a bite, all the dishes needed tackling, otherwise thered be nothing to eat with.
And its not as if theres any proper food left, either. I only just popped the kettle on and chucked a pan of water on the hob. Sausages itll have to be, I suppose. Im so hungry. Honestly, I never thought Id have to put up with life like this. Oh, and Sarah, she used to make such amazing stews! Wish Id have one of those for dinner tonight.
And her pies! And the little puff pastries filled with all sorts. Those ribs shed do, her specialities. You just cant beat them. The house was always spotless, too proper tidy, everything in its place. When Id get home after a long day, the place would be gleaming. Always smelled fresh. And now
How did I let that slide? I suppose I thought the only thing Sarah did was cooking and cleaning
Then, one afternoon, I spotted Emily. She was gorgeous, honestly, in a little skirt and heels. Just coming out of the beauty parlour, all put together the picture of perfection. I honestly paused for a moment to take it in.
Sarah never bothered with stuff like that. She didnt splash out on her hair, never dyed it, didnt fuss over fashion or keep up with trends. Still, she was trim and pretty in her own way. But she simply wasnt interested in all that girly stuff. She lived in jeans and trainers, always popping out to the shop or racing about the house.
Im in love with someone else! I blurted at Sarah that evening. I dont want to lie to you.
She was still whipping cream for the cake. Didnt even turn around. I didnt even notice the tears slipping down her cheeks
I suppose Id had enough of feeling like I was married to a housekeeper, not a wife. Maybe thats why I was so desperate to get close to Emily. And now here I am, washing up, mopping the floors, cleaning everywhere. I havent quite learnt how to cook properly, and at night sometimes I dream of Sarahs pies
Emilys had her nails done these days, so she cant lift a finger for the washing up. Shes lounging on the sofa, flicking through a magazine, off to get her hair styled. There are half a dozen dresses strewn across the floor, and shes nearly tripped over her heels twice, no clue what to wear for her next appointment at the salon.
Why did I swap my wife for a girl who cant be bothered with anything? Why dont I just make some pasta? Im absolutely famishedI drain the overcooked pasta, staring at the limp noodles clinging to the colander, and in that steamy haze, I catch my own reflection in the window. I look older. But mostly, I look lost.
Emily calls out across the flat, her voice light and careless, Is dinner ready? But I barely hear her. I remember Sarah humming in the kitchen, her laughter warm and rich even on the dullest evenings; how shed press a plate into my hands, her eyes dancing, like every small meal was a gift.
Somewhere between sausage pans and burnt toast, I traded comfort for glamour. But the glint of Emilys polish is cold, and the silence after shes gone out, echoing. The house no longer smells of baking, only of perfume and emptiness.
I set the bowl of plain pasta down on the table, and for the first time since Sarah left, I admit it: I traded love for the illusion of something more. I thought I wanted excitement, but what I needed was kindness. I needed her gentle, complicated presence not perfection, not polish.
The pasta is tasteless, but I eat anyway, and as I do, I make a silent promise to never let habit blind me to love again. From the other room, Emily taps her nails impatiently, but Im somewhere else nowcaught between the memory of Sarahs smile and the ache of everything I let go.
When I finish, I quietly stack the dishes, but this time, I dont just rinse away the crumbs. I gather up all the scattered dresses, pick up the fallen heels, and think of starting freshnot with someone new, but with myself, determined to recognize the beauty in ordinary days, before it disappears.
Sometimes you dont know the value of what you have, until all thats left is the sound of your own washing up.
