Your Husband's Real Wife

"You work too much, Andrea. When do you even rest?"

Andrea’s laughter echoed softly inside the elevator as she remembered her colleague’s teasing earlier that day. "Rest is for the weak," she had joked, adjusting the strap of her designer tote while flashing her signature, composed smile. It was the kind of banter she’d mastered—graceful, nonchalant, never too personal. That was her image: the woman who had it all together.

And to most people, she did.

As she stepped into the quiet luxury of their penthouse, the scent of freshly lit vanilla candles met her like a warm embrace. The heels of her stilettos clicked rhythmically against the marble floor. Everything was pristine. The cream-colored drapes gently swayed from the cool air streaming through slightly opened windows. The glass dining table was already set—gold-trimmed plates, crystal wine glasses, neatly folded napkins, and in the center, a bottle of red wine breathing beside two tall candles waiting to be lit.

Everything was perfect.

Except the silence.

Andrea glanced at the wall clock—6:58 PM. Right on time. She smiled and walked into the kitchen to check the oven one last time. Garlic butter asparagus, truffle mashed potatoes, and pan-seared steak, cooked medium rare just the way Gabriel liked it. Her hand moved with practiced elegance as she plated the food.

Her heart, though, fluttered like it always did around this hour. She was excited. Even after five years of marriage, she still wanted to make an effort. Still wanted to see his face light up when he walked in and smelled dinner.

Then, her phone buzzed on the counter.

She wiped her hands on her apron and reached for it, smiling.

Gabriel.

Her heart swelled.

But then she read the message.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. Last minute dinner with a client. Let’s do this tomorrow? Love you.”

Her smile faded.

Just like that, the anticipation fell to the floor like a glass shattering in silence.

Andrea stared at the message, the edges of her vision blurring slightly. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.

It’s okay. I understand. Take care.

She typed the same words she always did. Predictable. Polite. Unselfish.

She hit send, locked her phone, and placed it face-down on the counter like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

God, it did.

She closed her eyes and leaned against the counter, gripping its edge as if it could somehow ground her. The warmth from the oven still filled the room, but all she felt was cold. The kind that seeps slowly into your chest when something small—something you've accepted a hundred times—finally begins to sting.

Her fingers dug slightly into the wood as she whispered, “He promised tonight.”

Her voice cracked so faintly it sounded like breath.

She didn’t cry. Andrea Santiago never cried over things like this. She had perfected the art of swallowing disappointment with grace.

But the ache? It was real. Heavy. Familiar.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before untangling the apron from her waist. She folded it methodically, placed it on the back of the dining chair, and sat down at the table.

Opposite her, Gabriel’s seat remained empty.

She stared at it for a moment. Imagined his tired but warm smile, the way he loosened his tie and kissed her cheek. “You did all this for me?” he used to say. And she’d reply with a playful smile, “Of course. What wife wouldn’t?”

But now… now there were more texts than kisses. More excuses than dinners. More silence than laughter.

She cut into the steak, chewed slowly, and forced herself to swallow. Her appetite had disappeared the moment her phone lit up.

The wine, though—that helped.

She took a long sip.

It burned. But not enough.

Her gaze shifted toward the window. From their floor, the city looked alive—cars, lights, people rushing to their own lives. Down below, a couple walked hand in hand, laughing as if the world couldn’t touch them.

Andrea’s throat tightened.

“I used to laugh like that,” she muttered, swirling the wine in her glass. “Didn’t I?”

She stood up, the chair sliding against the floor with a screech louder than she intended. She walked toward the window and pressed her palm against the glass, her reflection staring back at her.

Smooth hair. Impeccable skin. Classy outfit. Perfect posture.

A perfect wife.

But her eyes—her eyes looked tired.

Lonely.

The kind of loneliness that doesn't come from being alone, but from being forgotten.

Her phone buzzed again on the table. She didn’t look. Couldn’t. She already knew what it was—another apology. Another promise of tomorrow.

How many tomorrows would it take?

She walked back to the table, picked up Gabriel’s plate, and scraped the food into the trash. Her movements were brisk, efficient—almost mechanical.

This wasn’t the first dinner he’d missed.

It probably wouldn’t be the last.

After she rinsed the dishes and wiped the counters, she leaned against the kitchen sink and stared at her own hands—delicate, steady, graceful. Hands that had built a business. A home. A life.

A life that, to everyone else, looked flawless.

She let out a bitter chuckle.

“If they only knew,” she whispered.

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, time stood still.

She walked to the bedroom, changed out of her blouse, and slipped into a loose shirt. No makeup. No jewelry. Just Andrea.

Not the wife. Not the architect. Not the woman who always smiled.

Just the woman who waited.

And was slowly growing tired of waiting.