My Husband Claimed I Should Serve His Friends, So I Strolled Off to the Park

James declared that I was to tend to his mates, and I slipped out for a walk in the park.

Emma, why are you dawdling? he barked. The lads will be here in half an hour and weve got no grub yet. Hurry up. Fry the potatoes with onions the way they like them, fetch the pickled cucumbers the ones Mum used to give us. Slice the bacon thin, but make it look neat, not in ragged chunks like last time.

James stood in the kitchen doorway, already in his lounge tracksuit and a stretchedout Tshirt, glancing irritably at his watch. Emma, just back from the supermarket with two heavy grocery bags, set them down with a dull thud on the tiles. Her shoulders ached, her boots were scorching todays shop run had been a nightmare, the preholiday rush turning shoppers into a stampede that emptied the shelves of everything.

James, who are the lads? she asked softly, unzipping her downfilled coat. Her fingers were stiff from the cold as she waited for the bus. Its Friday night. Im barely alive. I thought wed just have dinner and a film.

James rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. Barely alive, tired. Everyone works, Emma. Im not just lounging about. Simon called, theyre passing by with Tom and Will, thought theyd pop in. Its been ages. How can I turn away friends? That would be rude.

Could you have warned me? Called during the day?

It was spurofthemoment! Why make a mountain out of a molehill? All we need is some nibbles. Theyre not coming to eat, just to chat. Weve got a bottle in the bar. You just need to set the table quickly, a simple salad Oliver or crab, you know the drill. And a hot dish, the lads are famished after work.

Emma felt a hot balloon of resentment swell in her solar plexus. As usual. She knew this meant she had to spring to the stove without a pause, dash between sink and pan, hack salads, lay out plates, then spend the whole night clearing dishes, fetching fresh bread for the guys, listening to their crude jokes and loud guffaws, ending with a mountain of crockery, a smoky kitchen and a sticky floor.

James, I wont cook, she said firmly, meeting his gaze. Im exhausted. I want a shower and bed. If your friends are hungry, order a pizza. Or make dumplings yourself.

James stared, eyebrows arching.

Whats the matter, Emma? Pizza? The lads want homecooked. I promised my hostess would set the table. Simon still raves about your pastry. Dont embarrass me. What will they think? That I cant provide for my wife?

Provide? Emma echoed, a shiver running down her spine. Am I a recruit on parade or a servant?

Dont twist my words! James snapped, his tone hardening. Youre the lady of the house. Its your duty to welcome guests. I earn the money, I bring everything home do I not have the right to sit with my friends once a month? To have my wife fetch, serve, create a cosy atmosphere? Or am I asking too much? Just unpack the bags, pop the chicken in the oven while you peel the potatoes, and keep the vodka in the freezer to chill.

He turned toward the living room, hurling a remark over his shoulder: And tidy yourself up, you look like a garden scarecrow. Vickys new lady might think youre a bit pale.

The bedroom door stayed ajar, the TV blaring from within. James slumped onto the sofa, convinced the matter was settled: Emma had her orders, and like a loyal battlemate she would charge the culinary front.

Emma lingered in the hallway, listening to the news presenters mumble. She slipped off her beanie; her hair, wild and charged, fell over her face. Garden scarecrow. Jamess words rang in her ears. Twenty years of marriage, two decades of trying to be the perfect housewife, the perfect partner, the patient listener. Shed endured his garage hobbies, his mothers endless advice, his scattered socks and his constant complaints about bland soup. Shed believed that was family life compromise, patience, smoothing the edges.

She glanced at the grocery bags: a raw chicken intended for tomorrows lunch, vegetables for a salad, milk, bread the whole weight of the day pressing on her arms.

She bent down, not to unpack, but to zip her coat again, pull her hat low over her hair, adjust her scarf. She peeked into the bedroom for a moment.

James.

He waved without looking away from the television. Whats missing? Salt? Upper drawer.

Im leaving, she said.

Where to? he finally turned, genuine confusion flickering across his face. To the shop? Forgot something? Got bread, got mayo?

No. Im going for a walk. To the park.

What park? James sprang from the sofa. Are you mad? Its seven oclock, dark, cold. The guests will be here in twenty minutes! Wholl set the table?

You, she replied calmly. You invited them, youll set it. The potatoes are in the sink basket, the chicken is in a bag, the knife is in the block. Find a recipe online.

Emma, wait! James shouted, leaping up. What are you doing? Which park? Come back! Strip off and go to the kitchen! I told you!

Emma didnt hear him. She slammed the heavy front door, the locks click sounding like a gunshot. She rushed down the stairs, bypassing the lift, fearing James would lunge after her. The landing was silent; he seemed frozen, jaw hanging open.

Outside, fine, prickly snow fell. The wind slipped under her collar, unnoticed. Inside, adrenaline burned, a longforgotten sensation of reckless freedom coursing through her. She hurried, almost ran, away from the lit windows of her flat where James was probably scrambling for a excuse to the friends.

The park was two blocks away, an old municipal garden with wide avenues and tall lime trees now bare, swaying in the wind. Few people lingered a handful of dogwalkers, weary workers hurrying home, a teenage couple glued to their phones.

Emma turned onto a side lane where streetlamps flickered, casting odd shadows on the snow. She slowed, breath catching, heart thudding in her throat.

What have I done? a panicfilled thought rushed past.

Shed always feared conflict. From childhood shed been taught to be convenient. Endure and youll be loved, Silence is golden, A husband is the head, a wife the neck. Her mother would say, Emma, dont argue, be wiser. Feed and praise your man, and the house will be happy. So she fed, she praised, even when James perched on her neck like a demanding crow.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced a picture of James with the caption James. She waved it off, the call coming again, then again. She pressed power, slipped the dark screen into her pocket. Silence, only the wind and the crunch of snow under her boots.

She reached the pond. Black water lingered unfrozen, ducks paddling. A thin sheet of ice clung to the shore. She leaned on the cold railing, looking down.

She recalled the previous visit of the friends. Tom had gotten drunk and smashed her favourite vase a gift from her sister. James had laughed, Well, lucky us! Well buy a new one. They never bought one. And Simon, that night while she was clearing dishes, slapped her thigh and winked, Lucky for you, James, youve got a tireless wife wholl feed and pamper. James pretended not to see, or perhaps chose to ignore. Emma had wanted to crawl into the floor out of disgust, but she forced a strained smile and kept washing. Dont embarrass me in front of them, shed whispered.

She whispered back into the dark, I wont, I wont again.

She walked on, the frost biting her cheeks but oddly refreshing. Her stomach rumbled she hadnt eaten since lunch.

In the centre of the park a small kiosk glowed with a warm amber light. Emma approached the window.

Good evening, the young lady behind the counter said, her knitted hat askew. What can I get you? A warm drink?

A large cappuccino, please. And the cinnamonspiced snail, Emma pointed at the display. And a chicken sandwich.

Excellent choice. Ill heat it up right away.

She wrapped her frozen hands around the steaming cup, warmth spreading through her fingers. She sat on a nearby bench under a lamppost.

The sandwich was hot, cheese stretching, chicken juicy. It was the most satisfying meal shed had in years, not because it was gourmet, but because she ate it alone, in silence, serving no one, answering no one. She watched the snow fall, sipping coffee, feeling strangely alive.

An elderly couple ambled by, hand in hand. The man told a story, the woman laughed tenderly, adjusting his scarf.

Dont catch a cold, Tom, the woman chided gently. Youll get ill, dear.

Its hot enough with you, dear, the man replied with a grin.

Emma watched them and thought, Will we ever be like that in old age? The honest answer frightened her. No she imagined James still grumbling ahead, complaining she moved too slowly, while she lugged the grocery bags, thinking hed complain about his back.

A faint beep sounded from her pocket. She realized it was not her phone but the fitness tracker on her wrist ten thousand steps reached. Ironic. Shed left home just to meet a step goal.

Two hours slipped by. Emma had circled the park three times. Her legs throbbed, not from fatigue but from the long walk. The coffee was finished, the bun gone. Cold seeped through her coat. She needed to go home; she didnt intend to spend the night on a bench.

Returning felt ominous. What awaited? A fight? A scuffle? Perhaps James had chased the friends away and was now stewing in silent revenge.

She set off toward the flats. The closer she got, the slower her steps became. Her building loomed, lights glowing in every window kitchen, living room, hallway.

She rode the lift, fumbled for her key, hands trembling. She inhaled deeply, like before a dive, and opened the door.

A thick smell of burnt oil, tobacco smoke and cheap aftershave hit her nose. In the hallway, strangers boots lined the rack the guests had arrived after all. A heap of jackets hung on the coat rack.

From the kitchen erupted loud voices and laughter.

I tell her not to mix the seas! shouted Simon. A woman should know her place! And James, you handled it well!

Emma stripped her boots, hung her coat, stepped into the kitchen.

The scene was both dismal and pitiful. The table was a mess of open tins sprats, kippers slices of ham lay on a newspaper, as if no plates had been fetched. In the centre, a pan held blackened, burnt potatoes. Empty beer bottles surrounded it, a halffull vodka bottle glimmered.

Three men sat: James, Simon, and Tom. Will and his lady were absent perhaps theyd been turned away.

James sat with his back to the door, waving a fork with a pickled cucumber stuck in it.

She just ran to the shop, James muttered, his words tangled. For delicacies. Shell be back, set the table royally. My Emma is pure gold, just shy.

Emma coughed.

The men turned, eyes widening.

Ah, the hostess arrives! Simon barked, smiling greasy. Weve been waiting! James, you were out buying brandy?

James turned slowly, his face flushed, eyes glazed. Seeing his wife, he first startled, then remembered his role and scowled.

Where have you been?! he roared, trying to stand, stumbling back onto his chair. The lads are waiting! No food! The potatoes are burnt! Youve set me up, Emma!

Emma stared at the spilled beer, the ash in her favourite coffee mug turned ashtray, the sticky mess.

Good evening, gentlemen, she said, voice icecold. The banquet is over.

What? Tom stammered. Were just starting. Emma, can you at least make an egg? The potatoes are killing Vickys stomach.

I said, everyone out, Emma raised her voice. Its ten oclock. I have work tomorrow. James, see them out.

You cant tell me what to do! James slammed his fist on the table. The fork jumped and clattered. This is my house! My friends! Who are you to kick them out? Go to the kitchen and cook! Or else

Or else what? Emma stepped forward. Hit me? Fine. Ill call the police. Ill file for divorce tomorrow. Is that what you want?

A ringing silence fell. Even Simons grin faded. Theyd never seen Emma like this the quiet, smiling, compliant woman now a taut string, eyes fierce, radiating a power that made the room uneasy.

James, Tom whispered, standing. Maybe its time. The wives are worried too.

Sit! James growled. No ones leaving! Emma will fix everything. Ill count to three. One

Count to a million, Emma said, flinging open the kitchen window. A blast of frosty air flooded the smokefilled room. It needs freshening. It smells like a barn.

Have you lost your mind? James tried to rise, toppling his chair. I fed you, clothed you, and you

Fed? Emma sneered. I work two jobs, James, so we can pay the car loan. You forgot? I bought this coat three years ago with my bonus. You gave me nothing for it.

Simon and Tom, sensing the drama turning sharp, slipped toward the door, jackets halfon.

Alright, were off. See you later, Emma. Sorry if we upset you.

They fled into the hallway, slamming the front door behind them.

James and Emma were left alone. He leaned on the table, breathing heavily. The bravado drained as the audience vanished.

What have you achieved? he asked, hurt in his voice. Embarrassed myself in front of the lads. Now theyll call you a henpecked wife.

Youre the henpecked one, James. Not by me, but by your ego and your friends opinions. Youd rather listen to Simon than see your own wife collapse from exhaustion.

I thought you loved me cared for me

I loved you. I cared. Care is a twoway street. Ive been running on one side for twentyfour years.

Emma stared at the mountain of dirty dishes, the ash in the cup, the stains on the tablecloth.

Clean up, she said.

What? James barked, eyes wide.

Clean everything. The floor, the dishes. Air it out. I want the kitchen shining by morning.

And if I dont? he tried a threatening stance, looking pitiful.

Then youll be sleeping at your mothers place tomorrow. Im not joking. This flat was inherited from my grandmother. Youre on the lease, but you have no right to it. Ive tolerated you long enough. My patience snapped when you called me a scarecrow and sent the potatoes to the oven instead of asking how I felt.

Emma turned and slipped into the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower and stood under the torrent, washing away the nights grime, the tobacco scent, the sticky guilt that still tried to cling. She pushed it all down.

When she emerged, wrapped in a towel, the kitchen lights burned bright, the clatter of dishes filled the air. James, muttering, fumbled with a sponge, scrubbing a plate. He was angry, drunk, but he was washing.

Emma went to the bedroom, made the bed, hauled Jamess pillow and duvet onto the sofa in the living room.

Youll sleep there, she told him as he passed.

He gave no reply, only a sour glance.

Morning arrived quiet. Saturday. No need to work. Emma stretched, feeling her body unwind. Usually shed be at the stove making pancakes or cheese fritters for breakfast.

Today she rose slowly, applied a face mask, brewed fresh coffee.

The kitchen was relatively tidy. The floor bore faint streaks, the stovetop still held a grease ring, but the dishes were washed and stacked neatly. James slept on the sofa, head tucked under a blanket.

Emma sat at the table with her coffee, looking out at the snowcovered courtyard, at the park shed walked to the day before, where shed made the most important decision of her life to choose herself.

James shuffled in, face puffy, reek of last nights drink, eyes apologetic.

Emma breakfast? he asked, voice cracked. My heads splitting, could use some broth or soup.

Emma took a sip, savoring the taste.

The fridge has eggs, James. The pans clean, you washed it yesterday. You can manage.

You still angry? he perched on the edge of a chair, careful not to move too sharply. I overdid it yesterday, I admit. Too many drinks. Who hasnt? Lets make peace. I love you, silly.

He reached for her hand. Emma withdrew it.

Im not fuming, James. Ive learned. From now on, Ill cook when I want, what I want. Cleaning is splitShe walked out into the crisp morning, the parks whispering trees echoing her newfound resolve, and left the house behind for good.