The Neglected Wife

I sit in the corner of the restaurant, where the candlelight flickers weakly and barely reaches my table. I had deliberately chosen this spot—the most hidden place in the restaurant, with dim lighting keeping me out of view, so I won't have to endure the embarrassment of noticing how often my eyes drift toward the door. Here at least, I can sit in silence with my disappointment, far from the prying eyes of strangers.

The waiter has been by a few times now, silently refilling my glass of water without comment. His movements seem smooth, almost overly cautious, and there's something in the way he pauses like he knows what's going on. He doesn't say anything, but I catch it in his eyes: a quiet understanding, one that feels heavier than words.

I hate that look. That soft, well-meaning pity all wrapped up in politeness. It clings to me like a splinter under my skin, sharp and unshakable, like it's confirming something I don't want to admit. I don't need his lingering glances or his unspoken sympathy. I just don't want anyone to notice me at all. I just want Ethan to walk through that door.

I want him to walk through that door, fill up the room, his eyes sweep across until he finds me. I want that flicker of recognition, when he truly looks at me and not just for convenience, nor as an afterthought, but as someone important. And still, at my core, I know he won't. That door will stay shut, and Ethan isn't coming. The weight of that truth settles down on me, heavier each passing second. I knew it even before I'd gone out this night.

I knew it as I adjusted the blue dress in the mirror, made with such care. It was not just any dress; it was the one he had said looked "nice," in that vague, distracted way he used his words when they meant nothing. The memory plays in my mind now: "You look nice," he'd said, his eyes barely lingering, skimming over me like I was something to glance at, not someone to truly see. He never really saw me—not the way I wanted him to. He never saw those minute details I tortured over: how I kept changing my hair, or how careful I was with my makeup, or the deliberation that went into wearing something that I thought he might like.

To him, I was just there, part of the background. And "nice" was the highest praise I ever received—a word so vacuous it sounded like a stand-in, something he said to merely have a reason to stop speaking. But it was never enough. I wanted more than "nice." I wanted to be noticed, to be valued, to feel like I mattered. Instead, I was just another unnoticed detail in his life, blending into the background.

I recall standing in front of that mirror, staring at my reflection for what felt like an eternity, willing tonight to be different. Maybe, just maybe, if I wore this dress, if I looked just right, I'd finally catch his attention. But even as I laced up my shoes, even as I stepped out of the door, there was the heaviness that thudded in my chest—a quiet voice whispering the truth I did not want to hear.

I already knew how this night was going to end. I already knew he would not come, just like all the times he promised something and did nothing. Three hours. How long I've sat here holding on to that very faint, completely irrational hope that maybe tonight would be different. That maybe for the first time in my life he would surprise me. Maybe for once, as he opened that door, I would hear that apology from him, tell me why he's late but also show me once and for all that I am worth being here.

Each time that door swings open, my heart plays a cruel joke on me. It leaps, foolish and desperate, expecting him to walk through it. It never is him, though. It is always some other person: a couple who enters, their fingers entwined, their soft laughter an intimate thing; a group of friends pouring in, their energy so vibrant it makes the room feel alive in a way I can't quite connect with.

I can hardly recall the last time I felt that way—that simple, effortless happiness. Instead, there's just this aching loneliness, growing heavier with each minute that ticks by. Each time the door opens, each time I'm met with another face that isn't his, it presses down on me, suffocating and inescapable

I remember all those moments when I held onto hope, hoping he would finally see me. I recall wearing his favorite color, choosing that bright shade as if it might catch his eye in a way nothing else ever could.

I'd curl my hair for an extra hour, or try some new style, talking myself into it: If only I look good enough, he'll notice me.

He will stop and really look at me.

He never did. I was lucky to get a glimpse, a distracted nod, as if I didn't matter, as if the effort didn't count. A couple across the room leans into each other, laughing softly and freely. Their shoulders brush as they talk, their heads close, sharing something only they can understand. Even from this distance, their connection is unmistakable—tangible in the way their eyes meet, in the unspoken intimacy of their smiles.

For a moment, I find myself wondering what it feels like to be seen like that. To be looked at as if you're the most captivating person in the room. To be cherished, not as an afterthought or a convenience, but as someone who truly matters. Ethan’s never looked at me like that. He’s never paused long enough to see beyond the surface, beyond the version of me that’s always just… there.

The realization hits like a quiet ache, spreading through my chest: I’ve always been a backdrop in his life, someone nice to have around but never essential. And as I watch that couple, their world so full of life and love, something inside me shifts. The emptiness grows, filling the space where I once held hope, leaving behind the stark, hollow truth of what I've been missing all along. I should be angry.

I should feel a hot flame of anger toward the way he makes me invisible, innumerable ways he lets me down with little thought given to me.

Every passing second I spend in this dingy restaurant with the weight of his absence squeezing hard on my chest, I should be simmering.

I should want to scream at him, demand that he see how his indifference cuts deeper with every moment.

But all I feel is this dull, hollow ache-an emptiness too horribly familiar.

I've been there before. Across from that same empty chair, waiting for someone who never arrives. Waiting and hoping, desperate against all hope that this time will be different and he will walk through that door and prove me wrong. But always, it's the same pattern. The cycle goes on: hope, disappointment, and silence. I keep telling myself that perhaps he will change and finally look at me in a way that I so desperately need to be looked at by someone.

Nothing changes. Days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and I'm still here, trapped in the same suffocating routine. This is the hardest part: knowing that he probably does not even realize how much it hurts. He never sees the quiet devastation he's left behind every time he chooses to be somewhere else, with someone else. He never recognizes the weight of his absence, nor in what way it begins to chip away at me, piece by piece.

I don't think he's ever really listened, not to the words I say or the spaces between. I try to reach out to him; I try to show him just how much more than the minimum I need and how much more than casual nods and half-hearted gestures. I feel like yelling into an emptiness, but no one hears. My words become lost in his silence of apathy. Whatever I do or say, nobody listens to me.

The waiter comes cautiously, speaking in a low tone. "Do you want to order, madam?"

I look up for a moment and catch his eye. Kindness beams in them, meek and unassertive, but it hits a sore spot. I try to muster a smile through my lips. It feels fragile, like it may break from anything that's lurking inside me.

"Not yet," I whisper, barely audible. He nods and waits another second before stepping aside. Maybe he already knows, too, what I'm starting to realize: perhaps it's the time to stop waiting for someone who never comes.

There are no texts on my phone screen, no calls. The quiet shouldn't stab anymore, yet it does. Every time I think that he will do better this time that he will do enough to pay attention, I end up here—waiting.

But the truth is harder to ignore now.

He doesn't want me.

The few conversations we have seem hollow, like he's going through the motions, saying enough to keep me around but never enough to make me feel valued. I spent so much energy trying to bridge the distance that I realized he never tried at all.

The chair scrapes softly as I stand, the sound loud in this quiet corner I've claimed. Gathering my coat and bag, I feel the familiar sting of disappointment settling in my chest. But this time, something shifts. It's not just sadness-it's a quiet understanding that I can't keep doing this.

The cool night air shocks my skin, brisk and biting, but it clears my head. I've waited years, hoping that he would notice me, would make me realize that I matter. But tonight, I know better. It's not up to me to make someone care. I've got to stop giving pieces of myself away in the hopes that someone else completes me. With every step down the street, the weight of waiting starts to lift. It is not easy and the ache lingers, but there is something freeing about the decision finally to walk away. I am done waiting.

I walked into my house numb from dinner at that restaurant. Everything swirled through my head, everything that had just happened—but more painfully everything that hadn't. It was our fifth anniversary, a day for love and celebration. Instead, it felt like another empty milestone, another reminder of what was missing.

I went to hang my coat and could not resist the urge to touch the fabric. Memories I ran from seeped in. I used to think that if I loved him enough, that gap between us would be bridged. But tonight, it felt different. He didn't come.

Standing in the silence of our home, I felt the weight of it all. The silence is deafening. My mind drifts to anniversaries past, with each one a cruel reminder of how it's always been me holding on, me waiting, me trying. Always me. Always alone.

Our first anniversary was when I realized how things were going to be between us. I woke up early that morning, my heart racing with the thought of everything going just