“Where Do Wives Like This Come From?”
“Emma, put your phone down for one bloody minute!” Ben slammed his palm on the peeling laminate of the kitchen table, irritation sharp in his voice.
His wife reluctantly tore her gaze from the screen and fixed him with a bored stare. “What? What d’you want?”
“I want you to stop staring at that thing and actually talk to me!” Ben snapped, though his conviction wavered the moment the words left his mouth. Those once-bright eyes, now half-buried in plump, greasy cheeks, made him regret speaking up at all.
***
Emma hadn’t always been like this. Ben remembered—too clearly—how he, a lanky, awkward bookworm, had pined for the pretty blonde from the next terrace over. Back then, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
“What on earth do you see in her?” his mother had fumed. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but thick as two short planks. Barely scraped through school, didn’t even bother with college! Now she’s scrubbing floors in an office block, waiting for some prince to trip over her mop bucket!”
“Don’t say that!” Ben had turned scarlet. “All work’s honourable! Not everyone’s cut out to be solicitors or professors, Mum!”
“Oh, let her clean all she likes—I wouldn’t care if you weren’t so daft over her.” His mother had sighed. “Thank God she never noticed you. Marry a girl like that, and your life’ll go straight down the drain. You’re soft, Ben. Give her half a chance, and she’ll drag you right into the gutter with her.”
But Ben couldn’t help himself. Emma haunted his thoughts—on the bus, at uni, lying awake at night. She might as well have been a fairy-tale creature, beautiful and utterly out of reach.
***
While Ben dreamed, Emma married—though not a prince. That hadn’t worked out. Instead, she settled for Danny, a rough-around-the-edges lad from the estate. His flat was tiny and dingy, but at least it was his. And he had a job—loading lorries. Not glamorous, but it was a start. Surely he’d climb higher.
Danny, however, had other ideas. Once the wedding confetti settled, he expected Emma to pull her weight. But Emma refused. Cooking? Anything beyond scrambled eggs was too much effort. Cleaning? A weekly wipe-down sufficed.
Arguments flared. Emma cried. Danny shouted. One night, after a particularly nasty row, she fled to the bench outside their building, mascara streaking her face.
That’s where Ben found her.
“Emma, what’s happened?” He sat beside her, awkwardly patting her shoulder.
“Danny…” She sniffled, burying her face in his shirt, staining it with smudged makeup.
“Did he—hurt you?”
She nodded, choking back another sob.
“The bastard. Leave him.” Anger made Ben bold. “Stay with me. I won’t let him touch you again.”
Emma pulled back, blinked at him through smeared lashes. “Wait… who are you again?”
Ben froze.
“You look familiar.” She frowned, then brightened. “Oh! You’re the bloke from next terrace. Lives with his mum, the teacher, right? Went to our school—Benjy the swot!” She giggled. “Sorry, that’s mean.”
Ben’s jaw tightened.
“Ah, don’t sulk. Everyone got nicknames back then. You were always off in your own world, scribbling in notebooks!”
“Oi! Found you!” Danny’s roar cut through the air as he stormed out, tracksuit stains and all. “Home. Now.”
Ben stood, but Danny shoved him back onto the bench. “Stay put, four-eyes, unless you fancy a trip to A&E.”
Ben sat, hating himself, hating Danny, hating everything.
***
That night, Emma went back. They smashed plates, screamed, made up. The neighbours barely had time to dial 999 before it was over.
And so it went—again and again. Sometimes Ben saw Emma in oversized sunglasses on cloudy days, or sweltering in long sleeves mid-summer.
“Alright, Benjy?” she’d call, waving.
He’d stare at those dark lenses, too afraid to ask what hid behind them. “You okay, Emma? Marriage treating you rough?”
She’d scowl. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Just saying what I see.”
“Mind your own.” And she’d hurry off.
Ben would watch her go, fists clenched, knowing he was powerless. Too weak to thump Danny. Too weak to save her.
Until Danny, ironically, ended it for him.
***
One night, long past midnight, the doorbell rang.
“Who’s there?” Ben called, glancing at his mother lurking in the hallway like a spectre.
“It’s me. Open up!” Emma’s voice trembled through the door.
Ben let her in. She stood there in a tatty dressing gown, eyes red. He shooed his mum away, guided Emma to his room.
“How’d you know where I lived?” A stupid question, but his mind was blank.
“God, you’re thick!” She gave a weak laugh. “We used to write crap on your door, remember?” Then she noticed him staring at her bruises.
“Don’t say it. I’m leaving him. For good. Will you take me in?”
The question stunned him. Emma mistook his silence.
“Fine. Back to Mum and Dad’s, then.” She stood.
“Wait!” He grabbed her wrist. “I just—never thought this would happen. Stay. Please.”
And she did.
***
From that moment, Ben’s life spiralled. His mother raged. Danny kicked down their door until the neighbours finally called the police. Ben and Emma fled to a grim flat on the outskirts, a commute from hell.
Within months, he’d dropped out of uni. Money was tight. His mother helped—first with rent, then bribing the army recruiter—but soon her savings ran dry.
By the time Danny moved on and Emma got her divorce, Ben married her. His fairy-tale princess—bruised, but his.
His mother warned him: “You’ve thrown away your future.” But she relented.
Yet life didn’t improve. His mother nagged: “Go back to uni!” Emma whinged: “Earn more!”
Ben cycled through jobs—courier, security guard, warehouse grunt—until his back gave out. Every evening, he dreaded opening the door to their screeching arguments.
“You ruined my son!” his mother hissed.
“Look who’s talking, Miss High-and-Mighty!” Emma shot back.
Ben would slink to the kitchen, knowing dinner was, once again, his job.
***
He barely noticed when Emma—his delicate girl—morphed into a scowling, slovenly woman. The realisation hit at his mother’s funeral. Emma stood by the grave in a too-tight black dress, and Ben thought, morbidly, that if she sobbed, the seams might split.
She didn’t sob.
“Cheer up,” she muttered. “Quick death’s a blessing. Didn’t even see it coming.”
Ben clenched his fists but said nothing.
***
After his mother’s death, the flat became a tip.
“Emma, clean up a bit,” he pleaded.
“You do it. I work too, y’know.”
“In a flower stall? You sit on your arse all day!”
“So what? I’m not your bloody maid!”
Ben gave up. He was too tired to fight.
***
The wake-up call came at forty. A workmate, Dave, dropped by unannounced.
The flat was a sty. Emma, in a stained dressing gown, barely looked up from her phone.
“Help yourselves. I’m knackered.” She vanished.
Dave took one look at the kitchen sink and whistled. “Christ. Get her sorted, mate.”
After he left, Ben finally saw it—the years wasted on a fantasy.
He slammed his hand on the table. “Put. The phone. Down.”
Emma glared. “What?”
“I want a divorce.”
Her face purpled. “You used me! Now I’m old, you’re done?”
“Used you?” Ben laughed coldly. “You’ve done bugger-all for years. No kids, no work, no effort. Pack your things. I’ll crash at Dave’s.”
As her screams followed him out, Ben felt lighter than he had in decades.
***
Kicking Emma out took effort, but he managed. She slunk back to her parents’—now just her frail dad and a cockroach infestation. For once, she had to clean.
Ben, meanwhile, hired a cleaner, adopted a cat, and vowed never to let another woman wreck his peace.
The cat approved.
