My Husband Compared Me to His Friend’s Wife at the Dinner Table—And Ended Up with a Bowl of Salad in His Lap

“You’ve brought out this dinner set again? I told you I wanted the fancy one with the gold rim, the one Mum gave us for our anniversary. That looks far more dignified,” said Victor with a grimace, eyeing the plate Laura had just set on the crisp white tablecloth.

For a moment, Laura froze, the parsley bunched in her hand. She wanted to snap back, to point out that you couldn’t put the gold-rimmed set in the dishwasher and she had no intention of scrubbing plates at midnight once the guests had left. But she held back. It was Victors fiftieth birthdaya milestoneand she wasnt about to sour the mood before it had even begun.

“Vic, that set’s for twelve. Theres only four of us tonight. These plates are deeperbetter for the roast,” she said steadily, arranging sprigs of greenery atop the aspic. “Go check if the wines cooled. George and Charlotte will arrive any minute.”

Victor grunted something under his breath and lumbered to the fridge. Laura watched him go, her sigh deep and weary. The last week had been a mad dash of, ‘do it all.’ Her accounting job had swallowed up hours with quarterly reports, and the birthday prep left her ragged. Victor stubbornly refused to celebrate at a restaurant, insisting, “No one cooks better than you, Laura, and why throw cash away on showiness?”

Sure, it was nice for her cooking to be praised, but behind those words hid his typical thriftiness, his horror at seeing a bill. So Laura spent three evenings after work marinating meats, boiling veg, making Napoleon cake, and rolling up the aubergineVictors favourite. Her legs ached, her back screamed, and her nails only got a hurried coat of clear polish.

The doorbell rang, making her jump.

“I’m coming!” Victor barked, his face breaking into a hosts wide smile.

Charlotte glided into the hallwaya woman who always looked photoshoot ready, tall and perfectly polished in a cream dress that hugged her every curve. Her hands held a fancy little bag, boutique-branded. Behind her trudged George, laden with gift sacks and bottles.

“Laura, darling!” Charlotte air-kissed her, surrounding Laura with a cloud of expensive perfume. “Oh, it smells heavenly! You mustve worked a miracle in that kitchenagain! I told George, if he wants a party, he’s taking me to a restaurant. I don’t lift a finger. I have a manicure, after all!”

Instinctively, Laura hid her hands behind her back.

“Someones got to keep home feeling like home,” she replied, smiling tightly while taking Charlottes coat. “Come in, everythings ready.”

The dinner began as usual: health to the birthday boy, chatter about gifts (George had brought the high-end fishing rod Victor coveted for months), jokes and laughter. Laura scurried between kitchen and dining room, swapping plates, refilling nibbles, keeping glasses topped up. She barely ate herself.

Victor, warmed by his first glass, reclined and gazed at Charlotte in admiration, watching her spear a bite of fish.

“Charlotte, as ever, youre stunning,” he boomed. “Looking at youmagic, truly. You eat and stay slim. And that dress! Shows you take care of yourself.”

Charlotte tossed her hair, smiling coyly. “Vic, theres no trick. Its disciplinegym three times a week, no carbs after six, and proper skincare. Discovered a new face cream; its magic.”

“There! Discipline!” Victor jabbed the air, as if hed uttered a wise proverb. “Hear that, Laura? Discipline! You always say: too tired, no time. Charlotte works too, and lookshes radiant!”

Laura, as she set a huge platter of roast pork on the table, tensed. She was chief accountant at a big firm, managed the house, their garden, and helped grandkids with homework when her children dropped them off. Charlotte worked two days on, two days off as a beauty salon receptionist, with no kids.

“Vic, lets not compare,” Laura said softly, unwilling to start a fight in front of guests. “Everyones got their own pace. Try the roast, its a new recipeprunes, this time.”

But Victor wouldnt let it go. Drink had loosened his tongue and now all the petty grievances, or just foolish male bravado, spilled forth.

“Pork roast, sure,” he waved off, piling meat onto his plate. “Food is food. But its aboutthe aesthetic! George, youre lucky. Come home to a fairynot a cook in a housecoat. Such a joy to see. At home? Just pots, onions, and the smell of frying. I tell Laurajoin the gym, sign up for fitness. She says, My back hurts, my blood pressure Excuses, all of them. Plain laziness.”

George squirmed, trying to change the subject: “Vic, come on. Lauras a gem, mate. This meatdelicious! My Charlotte cant cook like thiswe live off ready meals and takeaways.”

“Exactly!” Charlotte jumped in, attempting damage control, making it worse. “I hate cooking, its true. But I always have time for myself. Men love with their eyes, isnt that right, Vic?”

Victor beamed at her, forgetful of his wifes feelings, and Laura sat across, hands folded in her lap, exhausted and silent.

“Spot on! Love with your eyes! But look over here,” he gestured at Laura. “You trieda dress, a hairdobut still, sotired. Matronly, you know? Charlotte has sparkle. Youjust shopping receipts in your eyes.”

The table fell silent. George stared at his plate, Charlotte fidgeted with her napkin. Laura felt slapped. She remembered ironing his blue shirt, the very one he now wore while belittling her, well past midnight because he had whined about not having a clean one. She remembered skipping the beautician to help fund that damned fishing rod.

“Enough, Vic,” Laura said quietly but firmly. “Youve had too much.”

“I havent!” he snapped. “Im just being honest! You know a friend in need. A wifea wifes known by comparison. And you fall short. Why can George take his wife out and be proud? Ive got to blush with mine! Have you looked in the mirror? Youre spreading, wrinklessame age as Charlotte!”

“Were not the same age, Vic,” Laura replied, voice cold. “Charlottes thirty-eight. Im forty-eight. And she doesnt carry grocery bags to the fifth floor when the lift breakswhile you sit on the couch.”

“Oh, here we go!” Victor rolled his eyes theatrically. “I work! I bring home the money! I expect my wife to fit my status. But youre just a broody hengood for salads and little else. Speaking of salad,” he pointed his fork at the herring under a beetroot blanket. “Even thatyou cant make properly. Charlottes was so light at Christmas. Yours is just mayo-mush. Like you.”

That was the final straw. Deep inside, something snapped. The endless patience, propping up twenty-five years of marriage, evaporated, leaving nothing but cold fury and empty calm.

Laura stood slowly, the change in her face unnoticed by Victor who was still ranting to George.

“No, but you tell me, George, am I wrong? Women are supposed to inspire! Hereits just boredom. Slippers, stew, gloom”

Laura picked up the enormous dish of herring saladfresh, creamy, beetroot-topped, at least a kilo and a half.

She walked round the table and stopped beside Victor. He finally paused and looked up at her.

“Whats up? Not enough salt? Skimped on the mayo?”

“No, Vic,” Laura replied evenly. Her voice was steady, calm. “Theres plenty. And youre rightI cant do much but chop salad. Maybe you need more of the aesthetic and lightness.”

She upturned the dish.

Time slowed. George gasped, mouth wide, Charlotte clapped a hand over her lips. The purple-pink mound, creamy and dense, dropped onto Victors lap, splattering his new pale trousersbought just for the occasion.

Squish.

The sound was hearty, moist. Mayo streamed down, beetroot seeped into expensive cloth, bits of fish decorated his zip.

For a moment, the room was absolutely still. Victor stared at his legs, stunned, as the beet juice blossomed across the beige fabric like a mad artists abstract.

“What have you done?!” he roared, leaping up. Salad tumbled to the floor, the carpet, his shoes. “You must be crazy! These are new trousers! Mad you are!”

Laura set the empty dish quietly on the table.

“Delicious, Vic. Hearty. And, you know, very authentic. All home-made.”

“Ill Ill” Victor started, raising his hand, but George grabbed his arm at last.

“Vic, enough! Calm down! Youve brought this on yourself!”

“I did?! I?” Victor screeched, shaking salad-soaked trousers. “I spoke the truth and she dumps food on me! Clean this up! Clean it up now! Crawl and scrub!”

Charlotte, pale as paper, shrank back in her chair. The evening had lost its charm.

Laura regarded her husband with cold disgust, as though looking at a cockroach.

“Youll clean it yourself,” she clipped out. “Or hire a cleaner. Youre the man of status, after all. I think Ill leave now. I need to take care of myself. Didnt you say I should look for inspiration?”

She walked out. In the hall, her movements were calm as she donned her coat and picked up her bag. Behind her, Victors shouting and Georges soothing murmurs echoed.

“Laura, where are you going?” Charlotte dashed into the corridor, mascara trembling. “Dont go. Hes drunk. He didnt mean it”

“He does, Charlotte,” Laura said, looking at her rival without malicejust pity. “Hes always thought it. He just kept quiet while sober. Thanks for coming. Youve opened my eyes.”

Laura walked out into the chilly autumn night. She had nowhere to go, but staying in that flat was impossible. She sat down on the bench outside, took out her mobile, and booked a taxi. To Mums, she decided. Mum had died two years before but the flat still stood empty, Laura never having found the heart to let it out. Now it was needed.

Victor called her dozens of times that evening, first to rage, thenafter sobering up. Laura didnt answer. She picked up wine and chocolate from the corner shop, went to the flat that smelled of books and dust, and, for the first time in years, sprawled on the sofa with no worry about laundry or breakfast.

The next two weeks were hell for Victor.

Laura didnt return the next day, nor the day after. She lived at Mums, went to work, and in the eveningsshe booked a massage. The one shed denied herself for three years.

Victor was left alone in a flat where, it turned out, food doesnt appear in the fridge through magic; socks dont hop into the washing machine, leap out clean and land folded in the drawer.

For the first three days, he acted tough, lived off tinned pies, wore jeans (the trousers still stainedcleaners gave up). He rang George, moaning about what a cow Laura was.

“Shell crawl back. Where else would she go at fifty? Shell come round, and Ill decide then whether to forgive her.”

But by day four, the shirts ran outthe ones Laura always ironed. Victor hated ironing and didnt know how. By day five, his stomach rebelled at all the tinned pie. By day six, the loo-roll was gone and hed forgotten to buy any.

The flat grew grimy. The BEETROOT stain, which hed half-heartedly scrubbed, started to reek of sour mayo and fish. The warmth he thought a guaranteed backdrop dissolved away.

And Laura Laura bloomed. No heavy shopping bagsshe cooked only for herself, ate little, and finally slept well. Colleagues in the office commented.

“Laura Price, youve fallen in love! Youve got a spark in your eye,” joked the accounts team.

“In love, girls,” Laura answered, “with myself. Finally, with myself.”

Two weeks later, Victor waylaid her outside work. He looked pitiful: crumpled shirt, stubble, eyes like a whipped dog. In his hands, a sad cellophane-wrapped bunch of three carnations.

“Laura…” he began, shifting foot to foot.

Laura halted, looking at him calmly and without warmth.

“What do you want, Vic?”

“Come on, enoughs enough. Jokes over. Time to come home. The um flowers need watering. And the cat misses you.”

They never had a cat.

“Im not coming back, Vic,” she told him simply. “Ive filed for divorce. The applications at court; youll get the summons.”

Victors jaw dropped.

“What divorce?! Are you off your head? Over a bit of salad? Over a few words? Weve been married twenty-five years!”

“Exactly. For twenty-five years, Ive been your household functioncook, launderess, cleaner. Never a person. You want a fairy, Vic? Find yourself a fairy. Maybe Charlottealthough George would see you off quick. Find someone who wafts perfume and never lifts a finger. Remember: fairies dont scrub the loo or make stews.”

“Forgive me, Laura!” he begged, grabbing her sleeve. Passersby began to turn. “I was daft, I didnt mean it! Ill get you a fur coat! Or a gym pass, whatever you wish!”

Laura laughed. Bitter, but also light.

“A gym pass? So Ill look like Charlotte and you wont be embarrassed to be out with me? No, Vic. I do go now, but for me. And I can buy myself any coat I want. Turns out, my salary covers plentyif Im not funding your hobbies and treats for your friends.”

“But what about me?” he asked pitifully. “Ill be lost. I cant even work the washing machinetoo many buttons”

“There are instructions online, Vic. Or get a cleaner. Im tired. I resign from my role as your wife. No severance package.”

She slipped her arm out of his grasp and walked toward the Tube. Her back straight, her stride light.

Victor lingered on the pavement, clutching his drooping carnations. He remembered that eveningthe delicious pork, the warm lamp glow, and that slow-motion moment when salad slid down his leg.

“Mad,” he muttered, though it sounded uncertain. “How mad”

But when he returned to the empty, smelly flat, stacked with plates congealed and crusty in the sink, he knew who really was mad. He called George.

“George, listencould I come over? For a proper meal?”

“Sorry, mate,” came Georges tense reply. “Charlotte and I had a row. I said she might cook a pie once, and she ranted about me lumping her with chores. Said, Look at Vics Laurawhere did that get her? Salad on the trousers. Im not doing it. So its instant noodles for me.”

Victor put the phone down and stared at the beetroot stain on the carpet. Its shape was like a heart. Broken, dirty, beetroot-stained.

Six months passed.

Laura and Victor divorced quietly. Their grown children tried to reconcile them, but seeing their mother radiant and their father constantly whinging, sided with Laura.

Victor never really learned to cook. He lost weight, looked drawn, sent out shirts to the launderetteexpensive, but necessary. He tried dating, but every woman was “not right.” One couldnt fry a chop; another demanded restaurants every evening; a third asked his salary outright, then sneered.

Laura spent her forty-ninth birthday in a cosy local café with her friends. She wore a new dress, had a fresh haircut.

“Regret it, Laura?” her friend asked. “All those years together.”

Laura stirred her coffee, smiling.

“I do,” she admitted. “I regret I didnt dump that salad on his head ten years ago. Wasted too much time trying to be perfect for someone who never valued it.”

She gazed out into the street. Couples strolled byhappy, sad, indifferent. But she knew now: her happiness didnt hinge on slicing ham thinly or someone elses wife getting all the compliments. Her happiness was hers. And her hands no longer smelled of onionsthey smelled of freedom and luxurious cream.

As for saladthese days, she bought it from the deli. Whenever she fancied. And only when she fancied.