**The Ideal Husband? How One Phrase Shattered a Marriage Built on Indifference**
*”You’re the perfect husband, Oliver.”* Those words, meant as reassurance, became the final straw in a marriage already crumbling under the weight of apathy.
I stumbled through the door, arms aching under the weight of two overstuffed shopping bags. Before I could even kick off my shoes, his voice cut through the quiet from the living room.
“You’re finally back? It’s already six?”
“Seven, actually,” I muttered, trudging toward the kitchen.
Three teacups sat abandoned on the tableevidence of yet another unannounced visit from his mother, likely with Aunt Margaret in tow. I wasnt even surprised anymore. Just another day of passive-aggressive remarks about my “unladylike” habits, disapproving glances, and the lingering scent of someone elses presence in *my* home.
“Where were you all this time? Im starving,” Oliver called, eyes glued to his laptop.
“At the supermarket. Stocking up for His Majesty,” I shot back dryly. “But actually, we need to talk.”
He ignored me. So I walked over, spun his chair toward me, and said calmly, “We should divorce.”
His head snapped up. “*What?* Why?”
“Because Ive had enough.”
“Emily, cant you just make dinner first? Well talk after. Im starving.”
“No. Were talking now.”
“Look, you know I dont drink, I dont go out, I dont mess around. I stay home, I work, I earn decent money. I never ask for anything. What more do you want?”
A bitter laugh escaped me. *Decent money?* “You live in *my* flatyou dont pay rent or bills. I handle all of it. The shopping, the cleaning, the cookingstill me. So tell me, whats the point of your money?”
He faltered. “Well I bought a jumper. Updated my gaming subscription. Sent some to Mum and Aunt Margaret now and then. Thats normal, isnt it?”
“Oh, perfectly normal. Except this morning, I asked you to hang up the laundry. Its still in the washing machine.”
“I was on my break”
“Switching tasks *is* a break.”
“But I dont know how! Mum and Aunt Margaret never let me near the cooker or the hoover.”
“Exactly. You dont know how. How *convenient*. Well, starting today, if youre hungry, figure it out. Im done. Some friends invited me for coffeeId said no, but now Im going. Good luck.”
I hung the laundry myself, jerked a hand toward the kitchen, and left. At the café, wine in hand, my phone buzzedhis mothers number. I flipped it face-down.
When I returned, *she* was waiting in my flat.
“Emily! Have you lost your mind?! Divorce?! Do you realise what you have in Oliver?! Men like him dont grow on trees! He doesnt drink, doesnt cheat, doesnt leave socks lying about! Women *envy* you!”
I met her gaze steadily. “Youre describing 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, cook, scrub, haul heavy bags, and pay for everythingfor both of us. What does he contribute?”
“He buys you gifts! I help him pick them!”
“Ah, that explains the foot spa at Christmas and the wool scarf for my birthday.”
She scoffed. “What, you wanted *gold*?”
“A spa voucher or a weekend by the coast wouldve been nice. But no. I get a scarf. And contempt. And the eternal I dont know how. Im done playing his mother.”
“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 it. Im not.”
“Couldnt you at least *try* before divorcing? Teach him”
“No. I shouldnt have to teach a grown man how to be one. I tried. For a year and a half. Im done. Pack his thingsyou can both go wherever suits you. Im not cruel. Just exhausted.”
Half an hour later, a cab idled outside the building.
