My Husband Compared Me to His Friend’s Wife at Dinner—So I Served Him a Salad Straight to His Lap

My husband compared me to his friends wife at the dinner table and ended up with a bowl of salad on his lap.

So youve pulled out the same dinner set again? I told you to use the one with the gold trim that Mum gave us for the anniversary, it looks more refined, Victor grumbled, eyeing the plate Susan had just placed on the gleaming white tablecloth.

Susan paused, parsley bunch in hand. She wanted to retort, to say the gold-trimmed plates cant go in the dishwasher, and after guests leave at midnight shed sooner do anything than scrub china at the sink. But she bit her tongue. It was Victors fiftieth birthday, a milestone, and she had no wish to sour the evening from the start.

Vic, that sets for twelve, there are only four of us tonight. And these plates are deeper, much better for the roast, she replied calmly, finishing off the aspic with a sprig of greenery. Better check if the vodkas cold. Gordon and Charlotte will be here any minute.

Victor mumbled something under his breath and shuffled off to the fridge. Susan watched him go, exhaling heavily. The past week had been a race to keep up with everything: her accountant job was draining, it was quarter-end, plus the party preparations. Victor flatly refused dinner out, declaring, No one cooks better than you, Suze. No sense in paying for fancy nonsense.

Of course, it was nice to have him praise her cooking, but beneath it was the usual thrift and the dread of seeing menu prices. So, for three nights after work, Susan had been marinating meats, boiling veg, baking layers for a Victoria sponge, and rolling up aubergine Victors favourite. Her feet ached, her back throbbed, and the manicure from last week was replaced by hurried clear polish.

The doorbell rang, making her jump.

Coming! called Victor, his gruffness instantly swapped for a hosts sunny grin.

Charlotte swept into the hall, and swept was the only word. Gordons wife always looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine slender, polished, her elegant cream dress hugging her perfectly. She held a small bag from a posh shop, Gordon trudged after, hands loaded with gifts and wine bottles.

Dearest Susan! Charlotte air-kissed her, the scent of expensive perfume swirling. It smells divine in here! Youve certainly turned out another kitchen miracle? Goodness, I just couldnt. I told Gordon: If you want to celebrate, take me to a restaurant. Im not going near an oven, especially with a fresh manicure!

Susan instinctively hid her hands behind her back.

Well, someones got to keep the home fires burning, she smiled, taking Charlottes coat. Come in, everythings on the table.

Dinner started as usual. Toasts to the birthday boy, chat about gifts (Gordon had brought an elaborate fishing rod Victord wanted for months), laughter. Susan dashed between kitchen and lounge, swapping plates, restocking the starters, filling glasses. She managed only a mouthful of salad and a small bit of cheese herself.

Victor, buoyed by the first vodka, relaxed. He leant back and eyed Charlotte admiringly as she gracefully picked at her salmon.

Charlotte, you look stunning as ever, he said across the table. I see you eat and never put on a pound! And your dress, fabulous! You can tell when a lady takes care of herself.

Charlotte tossed her hair.

Oh Victor, dont be silly. Its all discipline. Gym three days a week and absolutely no carbs after six! And proper skincare, of course. I found a new face cream, magic, honestly.

Hear that? Victor wagged his finger like hed spotted a hidden truth. Discipline, Suze! Discipline! But youre always, Im tired, no time. Charlottes got a job too, and look at her shes a picture.

At that, Susan froze as she was bringing out a platter of roasted pork. She managed accounts for a big company, ran a household, looked after the garden, helped grandkids with homework when her children visited. Charlotte worked two days on, two off as a beauty salon receptionist, and she and Gordon didnt have children.

Vic, lets not compare, Susan said gently, wary of sparking a scene. Weve all got our own pace. Try the pork, its a new recipe: prune and herb stuffing.

But Victor was rolling now. The drink had loosened his tongue, and old grievances or just showy male bravado began to spill out.

Stuffed porks just food! he waved dismissively, piling his plate. Food is food. Its the aesthetics Gordon, youre lucky. You go home, your wife isnt just a cook in a robe, shes a fairy. Makes you glad to be alive. Whereas I get endless saucepans, the smell of fried onions. I keep telling Susan: join a gym, sign up for fitness. My back. My blood pressure. All excuses. Just laziness.

Gordon sensed trouble and tried to steer things elsewhere.

Now, Vic, dont start. Susans a wonderful hostess. That pork youll lick your fingers! Charlottes not much for cooking, we mostly live off ready meals or takeaway.

Exactly! Charlotte chimed in, though her attempt to smooth things only made it worse. Cookings not for me, true enough. But I always make time for myself. A man should adore his wife visually, right, Vic?

Victor beamed, looking at his friends wife with oily admiration.

Couldnt agree more! Adoration is visual. But look at Susan he nodded at his own wife, sitting with tired hands folded in her lap. Youve got yourself a dress, done your hair, but still you look worn out. Auntish, you know? Charlottes eyes shine, shes full of life. You, Susan? I see supermarket receipts in your eyes.

The silence at the table could be cut with a knife. Gordon studied his meal, Charlotte fiddled nervously with a napkin. Susan felt the sting of a slap. She remembered ironing Victors blue shirt at one in the morning because hed whined nothing was clean, remembered skimping on facials to chip in with colleagues for his fishing rod.

Vic, enough, she said quietly but firmly. Youve had too much.

I havent! Victor protested. Im just speaking plainly! You know a wife by comparison! And I compare. And you dont stack up. Why can Gordon bring his wife out socially and be proud, while I have to feel embarrassed? Have you looked in the mirror? Youve gone soft, got wrinkles and you two are the same age!

Were not the same age, Vic, Susan replied icily. Charlottes thirty-eight. Im forty-eight. And Charlotte isnt hauling groceries up four flights when the lifts broken, especially while youre lying on the sofa.

There we go! Victor rolled his eyes dramatically. I work! I bring money home! I have the right to expect a wife that matches my status. You youre just a hen. Just making salads. Look at that even you cant get the salad right. Had Charlottes at Christmas so light, so airy. Yours its just a mess of mayonnaise. Like you.

It was the last straw. Something inside Susan broke. That bottomless patience that had kept the marriage afloat for twenty-five years dried up, replaced with a ringing emptiness and cold fury.

She slowly rose. Victor, oblivious, kept ranting to Gordon:

Tell me, Gordon, am I wrong? A wife should inspire! You come home and its just drudgery robe, slippers, soup. Boring as death

Susan picked up the hefty bowl of layered salad. It was freshly mixed, thick with mayonnaise, vibrant with beetroot. A good kilo and a half, at least.

She came round the table and stood next to Victor. He finally fell silent and looked up.

Why are you standing there? Need more salt? Didnt use enough mayo?

No, Vic, Susan replied evenly, voice unwavering. Enough of everything. Youre right, I am only good for making salads. And since you crave style and delicacy so much, maybe this salad is just what you need.

And with that, she turned the bowl upside down.

Time seemed to slow. Gordon gaped. Charlotte gasped, hand over mouth. The pinkish-red mass, creamy and dense, landed with a squelch on Victors lap, all over his brand-new light trousers, bought especially for the occasion.

*Squish.*

It was a wet, rich sound. Mayonnaise trickled, beetroot stained the costly material, bits of pickled herring lodged in the zip.

For a moment, mortuary silence filled the room. Victor stared at his knees, disbelief frozen on his face. Beetroot juice rapidly spread, transforming beige trousers into an abstract modernist nightmare.

What have you done?! he roared, jumping up. Clumps of salad hit the carpet and his shoes. Have you lost your mind?! Theyre new trousers! You madwoman!

Susan quietly set down the empty bowl.

Tastes good too, Vic. Hearty. And all-natural, by the way made by hand.

Ill Victor raised his hand, but Gordon leapt up, grabbing his mate.

Leave it, Vic! Calm down! You brought it on yourself!

I brought it on?! Me?! Victor wailed, shaking his salad-stained trousers. I just told her the truth! She dumps food on my lap! Clean it! Get down and clean it now!

Charlotte shrank against her chair, pale as linen. The evening had unravelled.

Susan gazed at her raging husband with a look reserved for cockroaches.

You can clean it yourself, she snapped. Or call a cleaner. Youre such a high-status man, after all. I think Ill be off. Told I need to take care of myself. Inspiration, remember?

She turned and left the room, quietly donning her coat and picking up her handbag in the hall. Victors bellowing and Gordons soothing mutters drifted from the lounge.

Susan, where are you going? Charlotte dashed out, mascaraed lashes wide with concern. Suze, dont, hes drunk, he didnt mean it

He did, Charlotte, Susan said, looking at her, feeling only pity, not anger. Hes always thought it. He just kept quiet when sober. Thank you for coming. Youve opened my eyes.

Susan stepped into the crisp autumn air. Nowhere to go, but staying in that flat was unthinkable. She perched on a bench outside, pulled out her phone and booked a cab. To mums, she decided. Mum had died two years before, but the flat was empty still, Susan had never gotten round to letting it. Now, that was lucky.

Victor rang nearly twenty times that night. First, presumably, to shout; later, sobered up. Susan didnt answer. She stopped at the all-night shop for wine and chocolate, arrived at mums place, which smelled of dust and old books, and, for the first time in years, lay on the sofa with nothing to wash, nothing to cook for breakfast.

The next fortnight became hell for Victor.

Susan didnt return next day, or the day after. She stayed at her mothers, went to work, and in the evenings She booked herself a massage. The very one shed denied herself for years.

Victor was left alone, discovering that food didnt magically fill the fridge, socks didnt hop into the washer and thence to the drawer in paired neatness.

For three days, he put on a brave front. Ate supermarket pies, settled for jeans (the trousers couldnt be cleaned; the dry cleaner refused liability). Told Gordon on the phone that Susan was a stubborn cow.

Shell come crawling back, he boasted. Shes pushing fifty, wholl have her? Shell cool off and return. Ill decide whether to forgive her.

But on the fourth day, his shirts ran out. He hated ironing, hadnt a clue. On the fifth, ready meals made him ill. On the sixth, he discovered the toilet paper had run out and hed forgotten to buy more.

The flat became grubby. The salad stain on the carpet, scrubbed with a wet rag, began to reek of rotten mayonnaise and fish. The background comfort hed always taken for granted crumbled away.

And Susan Susan blossomed. No more heavy grocery runs; she only cooked for herself now, and not much. She got proper sleep. The office girls noticed.

Susan Turner, are you in love? Your eyes have a sparkle the girls in accounts teased.

Im in love, girls, she replied. At long last, with myself.

After two weeks, Victor waited for her outside work. He looked miserable: crumpled shirt, stubble, sad wet-dog eyes. In his hand, a silly bunch of carnations wrapped in plastic.

Susan he began, shifting awkwardly.

Susan stopped, expression cool and indifferent.

What do you want, Vic?

Susan, come on, its enough now. Jokes gone far enough. Time to come home. Flowers need watering. And the cat misses you.

They didnt have a cat.

I wont be coming back, Vic, she said simply. Ive filed for divorce. The papers are in court, youll get your notice.

Victors jaw dropped.

Divorce?! Have you lost your senses? Over a salad? A few words? Weve spent twenty-five years together!

Exactly, she replied. For twenty-five years I was just a convenient service cook, cleaner, washer. Never a person. You wanted a fairy, Vic? Go find one. Charlotte, perhaps? On second thought, Gordonll have your head. Try another. Someone who flutters, smells of perfume and does nothing. Just know: fairies dont scrub toilets or make soup.

Please! Victor pleaded, grabbing her sleeve, while passersby stared. It was stupid, I didnt think, the devil got into me! Do you want a new coat? Or a gym membership, if thats what you want?

Susan laughed, bitterly but light.

Gym? So I can look like Charlotte, parade me around comfortably? No, Vic. I already go. For myself. And the coat? Ill buy it myself, if I want. My incomes plenty when Im not spending it on your hobbies, fishing rods, and treats for your mates.

But what about me? he asked, lost. Ill perish. I cant work the washing machine too many buttons

The manuals online, Vic. Or hire a cleaner. Im done. I resign as your wife. No severance pay.

She tugged her arm free and headed for the tube. Her back straight, her stride light.

Victor lingered long on the pavement, carnations drooping in his fist. He thought back to that night, the succulent roast, lamps warm glow and that moment when salad cascaded down his leg.

Fool, he muttered, with none of his usual certainty. A bloody fool

Returning to his stale, smelly flat, with piles of dirty dishes and congealed leftovers, Victor knew who the fool was. He dialled Gordon.

Mate, can I come round tonight? For a home-cooked meal?

Sorry, old chap, Gordon sounded harried. Charlotte and I had a row. I asked her, just once, to boil some pasta she blew up, said shes not my cook. She said, Look at Vic, Susan cooked and it ended in disaster, salad on the trousers. I dont want that. So Im living on Pot Noodle now.

Victor hung up, gazing at the stain on the carpet. It looked oddly heart-shaped. A dirty, beetroot-stained heart.

Six months passed.

Susan and Victor divorced quietly. Their grown-up children tried to reconcile them, but seeing a glowing mother and a grumbling father, they sided with Susan.

Victor never did learn to cook properly. He lost weight, grew listless, had his shirts ironed at the launderette expensive, but necessary. He tried dating but found every woman not quite right. One couldnt fry up sausages, another insisted on restaurants, one simply asked his salary upfront and turned away.

Susan celebrated her forty-ninth birthday at a snug café with friends, wearing a new dress and sporting a new haircut.

Do you regret it? her friend asked. All those years together.

Susan stirred her coffee and smiled.

I do, she said honestly. I regret not upending the salad over his head ten years ago. I wasted so much time trying to be perfect for someone who never appreciated it.

She gazed out the window at the spring street, couples going by happy, some not. But she knew now: her happiness wasnt about neatly sliced sausage or someone elses wife getting compliments. Her happiness lay in her own hands. Hands that no longer smelled of onions, but of freedom and fine hand cream.

As for salad She buys it at the deli now. Just a little, when she fancies it.