REBIRTH OF THE PATHETIC HUSBAND

My Pathetic Love Life

The sound of dishes clinking echoed through the empty kitchen as I stood at the sink, scrubbing bits of food off a porcelain plate. The air smelled like leftover dinner and dish soap, a cruel reminder of what was happening in the next room. Laughter spilled in from the living room—carefree, mocking. My fingers, wrinkled from hours of washing, ached with every movement, but I kept going. I had no choice.  

From where I stood, I could hear them—my wife, Eleanor, and her friends. Their voices were light, full of amusement. Their laughter was sharp, like broken glass. I wasn’t welcome in that room. Not unless I was serving them. In this house, I was never a husband. I was a servant.  

Eleanor had made sure of that.  

Months ago, she fired all the maids, saying they were incompetent. But I knew the truth. She never replaced them because she didn’t want to. She liked watching me do everything—scrubbing floors, washing dishes, cooking meals. It made her feel powerful. It gave her satisfaction.  

I wiped my hands on the rag over my shoulder and glanced toward the open doorway. I could see Eleanor lounging on the white couch, her legs draped lazily over the armrest. She was beautiful, effortlessly so. Golden hair cascaded over her shoulders. Her lips curled into a smile as she whispered something to her friends. Whatever she said sent them into another fit of laughter.  

Then—  

“John!”  

Her voice cut through the air like a blade.  

I stiffened. My hands clenched, but I forced them to relax. No matter how many times she called me like that—like I was a houseboy at her beck and call—it never got easier to bear.  

“Yes?” I answered, keeping my voice calm. Too calm. If I showed any emotion, she’d use it against me.  

Eleanor turned her head just enough to look at me over her shoulder. Her smile was cruel. “Come here.”  

I stepped out of the kitchen, pushing away the exhaustion in my body. I knew what was coming. She only called me when she had another order, another way to humiliate me.  

As soon as I entered the living room, I felt their eyes on me—Eleanor’s and her friends’. Their expressions held the same knowing amusement, like they were all in on some joke I wasn’t part of.  

“Make us something to eat,” Eleanor said, stretching her arms above her head. “We’re starving.”  

I hesitated. Just for half a second.  

Too long.  

One of her friends, a brunette with too much makeup and a mean glint in her eyes, smirked. “You’d think a househusband would be faster, wouldn’t you?”  

“Maybe he needs a raise,” another one teased, laughing.  

“Or a leash,” the brunette added, and the room burst into laughter.  

I felt their amusement like fire against my skin. I wanted to say something. To remind them that I wasn’t their servant. That I was Eleanor’s husband.  

But what was the point?  

I had fought back once—long ago, when this all started. When Eleanor’s love had turned cold, when her affection had soured into something cruel. I had shouted, argued, demanded respect.  

And I had learned.  

There was no winning.  

So, I nodded. “I’ll make something.”  

Eleanor smiled, pleased. Like I was a well-trained pet. “Good boy.”  

My stomach twisted, but I turned away before they could see the humiliation in my eyes. I walked back to the kitchen, gripping the counter to steady myself. Their laughter echoed behind me, filling the house.  

I swallowed hard and reached for a pan.  

This was my life.  

And no matter how much I wished otherwise, there was no escape.  

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my shaking hands as I reached for a pan. The cold metal felt real, grounding me as I turned on the stove. The laughter in the living room had quieted, but I could still hear their voices, light and amused.  

They had already forgotten me.  

To them, I wasn’t a person. I was just part of the house—something useful, something unimportant.  

I moved quickly, setting out ingredients. I knew what Eleanor wanted. It had to be fancy, like something from a restaurant. Simple food wasn’t good enough. I had learned that the hard way.  

The first time she asked me to cook for her guests, I had made sandwiches, thinking they would be fine. She had taken one look at them, then at me, and laughed. But it wasn’t a kind laugh.  

"Do I look like someone who eats this?" she had said before knocking the tray onto the floor.  

I never made that mistake again.  

Now, I worked like a machine—chopping, stirring, sautéing—moving like a trained chef instead of the man who once had dreams of being something more. The heat from the stove burned my skin, but I ignored it. The only thing that mattered was finishing fast. Eleanor hated waiting.  

I arranged the food carefully, making sure everything looked perfect. If it wasn’t, she would let me know. Once it was done, I wiped my hands and carried the tray to the living room.  

The moment I walked in, their conversation stopped. Their eyes scanned the food, judging my work.  

Eleanor smirked. “That took long enough.”  

I forced a smile. “I wanted it to be perfect.”  

One of her friends giggled, whispering something to the brunette from earlier. They both laughed.  

Eleanor leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You know, John used to have so much pride,” she said. “When we first got married, he actually thought I would cook for him.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe that?”  

Her friends gasped in fake shock.  

“No way,” one of them said. “He actually expected you to act like a wife?”  

Eleanor sighed, like she was remembering something silly. She looked at me, her eyes cold. “Weren’t you, darling?”  

I swallowed and nodded. “I was.”  

That was the answer she wanted. The only answer that kept the peace.  

Eleanor smiled, satisfied. “Well? What are you waiting for? Serve us.”  

I moved quickly, placing the plates in front of them. As I leaned over to set Eleanor’s down, she hummed.  

“You know,” she said, swirling her wine glass, “sometimes I think I should have married Richard instead. He would never let his wife lift a finger.”  

The words shouldn’t have hurt, but they did. I knew she didn’t love me—not anymore—but hearing it out loud still stung.  

Her friends laughed. I knew I was supposed to laugh too. To pretend it was just a joke. But I couldn’t.  

So I simply nodded.  

“Do you need anything else?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.  

Eleanor exchanged glances with her friends before shrugging. “Not right now. But don’t go far. We might want dessert.”  

I nodded and turned away. As soon as I was in the kitchen, I let out a slow breath, gripping the counter to steady myself.  

I looked down at my hands. They were red from the heat, sore from the endless work, but I barely noticed. Pain was just part of my life now—just like the humiliation.  

From the living room, their laughter rang out again.  

They had already moved on, already forgotten me.  

I should be used to it.  

I was used to it.  

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.  

I glanced at the clock. It was late. Other men would be winding down for the night, sitting beside their wives, sharing quiet moments of peace.  

But I wasn’t like other men.  

Eleanor had made sure of that.  

I turned back to the sink, rinsing the dishes I had just dirtied. If I didn’t, she would find a reason to scold me later. I had learned to be careful. Everything had to be spotless. If it wasn’t, she would remind me how lucky I was to still be here.  

How lucky I was that she hadn’t thrown me out.  

This was my life.  

A never-ending cycle of humiliation and obedience.  

And the worst part?  

I still loved her.