**The Hourly Wife**
Karen stepped out of yet another stranger’s flat with the odd sensation of being cheated on. Though, strictly speaking, it was she who had come—to cook soup, change sheets, iron shirts, and listen to the usual complaints: *My wife doesn’t understand me. The house is a mess. Cleaning services cost too much. I’m under so much stress, Karen, you’ve no idea.* Oh, she had an idea.
Karen worked for a company offering domestic services—branding themselves as «The Hourly Wife.» It was temporary work.
She was a trained accountant, but the firm she’d worked for had gone under. New opportunities were scarce; the good positions were long taken, and she refused to settle for anything beneath her. Truthfully, she was exhausted. She needed a break. So «The Hourly Wife» became her stopgap, something to keep her afloat until she found something better.
Her parents disapproved. They believed even a miserable office job—clean, stable, *respectable*—was better than this «nonsense.» Their educated daughter, hauling groceries, scrubbing strangers’ ovens, traipsing to unknown addresses. They were ashamed—not of her, but of what others might say.
«Go back to accounting,» her father insisted. «You’re clever. Why lower yourself to this… grime?»
«Maybe the divorce broke you,» her mother murmured once.
They didn’t understand. For Karen, this wasn’t just about money. It was about survival. A way to breathe, to feel needed. Still, her mother wasn’t entirely wrong. The divorce had left its mark—twisting her choices in ways even she didn’t fully grasp.
She didn’t have many regulars. Today, just three. One asked her to sit in his kitchen—just so he wouldn’t feel so alone. Another handed her keys and a note: *Wash the laundry, feed the cat if you like. Stay the night if you want. Payment’s on the table.* She left before dark. The last requested a meal «like his mum used to make,» providing a tattered notebook of recipes. Over dessert, he wept. Then tried to kiss her cheek. Karen wiped the table in silence, washed the dishes, and walked out without a word.
At home, the stairwell smelled of damp. The woman from the fifth floor was shouting at her son through the door, a dog barked somewhere. Inside, silence. His slippers still sat by the threshold—left behind when he moved out six months ago.
Karen kicked off her shoes, filled the kettle, and slumped into a chair by the window. Sometimes, none of it felt real. As if «The Hourly Wife» wasn’t a job but a penance she’d invented. For what, she didn’t know. Still, she served her sentence—listening, cleaning, cooking, ladling soup. No questions, no confessions. Clients often asked, *Why do you do this?*
She’d tilt her head slightly—trained in customer service—and reply, «Shall I tidy the bedroom instead?»
Not a lie. Not the truth, either. The truth was like grease on a hot pan: it spat, sizzled, burned.
He’d left her. Not without reason. Said she needed time to think. But there was nothing to think about. Karen wouldn’t share a bed with a liar and a cheat—no matter how Mark insisted it was «just harmless flirting.»
She’d found out by accident. Rushing to work one morning, she’d grabbed his phone instead of hers—same model, same case they’d chosen together. At the office, the screen lit up with messages. Too intimate. Too many.
At home, she didn’t scream. Just asked, calm as ice, *Does this mean nothing?*
«It was just words,» Mark said. «A bit of attention. You’re always tired, always busy—working, cleaning. I didn’t even realise I’d slipped into it. But Karen, I never crossed the line. Just messages. Photos. That’s not cheating.»
He leaned closer, voice dropping. «If marriages ended over texts and pictures, no one would stay together. Everyone flirts. It’s nothing.»
She nodded. «I see.»
Relief flashed across his face. «So… we’re good?»
Karen stood, smoothing her sleeve. «You are. I’m moving on. Without you.»
Stunned silence. Then laughter. «You’re throwing us away over *this*? People forgive worse. They move on.»
«Maybe they do,» she said. «But I’m not *them*. What I read was enough.»
He reached for her hand. She stepped back.
«Don’t. I’m not angry. Not even hurt. I just won’t live with someone who seeks warmth elsewhere while I’m keeping our home together.»
He scoffed, shaking his head. «You always do everything *perfectly*. Cold. Rational. Even now. No tears, no begging. Like some bloody accountant.»
Karen almost smiled. «Exactly. I *am* an accountant. And in our story, the numbers don’t add up.»
She didn’t cry. Didn’t shout. Didn’t even tell him to leave—just walked to the bathroom, splashed icy water on her face, and sat on the edge of the tub until her hands stopped shaking. That was how her marriage ended. Quietly. No scenes. Just silence outside—and collapse within.
A week later, her firm folded. The final blow. Karen knew it was coming—she’d seen the numbers—but hearing the words still winded her. It felt like her whole life had crumbled at once.
The divorce shattered her. She’d loved him, believed in their future. Now that love was a wound—raw, unhealed. She wouldn’t forgive him. He’d left with a parting shot: *You’re a fool. No husband, no job.* Then added, as if it mattered, that he still loved her. That he’d give her time to «come to her senses.»
That night, she sent out dozens of CVs. A few callbacks led nowhere. Offers were laughably low.
«Take *something*,» her mother urged. «Even minimum wage. Sitting idle is shameful.»
Karen agreed.
So she became «The Hourly Wife.» Mopping floors, roasting chicken, hemming shirts. Other people’s homes, other people’s lives. Nothing of her own. Every visit, she played a role—smiling, efficient, detached. No real responsibility. Just time—too much time—to think. She told herself things would change. But weeks passed, and nothing did. Only exhaustion grew. And the gnawing sense she was stuck—between a past she couldn’t forget and a future she couldn’t see.
—
Midweek, Karen arrived at a new client’s—a respectable brick townhouse with a coded entry, green courtyard. The request: cook lunch, clean the kitchen, organise a cabinet of paperwork.
The door opened to a man in his thirties—glasses, tired eyes, polite.
«You’re Karen? Come in. I hate imposing, but I’m swamped.»
His study was paper chaos—documents, bills, reports. «My grandfather’s estate, work deadlines… Mind if I shut myself in here?»
Karen nodded. Typical. Clients were either busy, awkward, or hovering.
She washed dishes, made soup, wiped surfaces, began sorting files.
«Thanks,» he said later, leaning in the doorway. «Really.»
She just nodded. Gratitude felt misplaced—she was paid to be here.
But he lingered, watching her. «Sometimes… it feels like everything’s falling apart at once. Work, family, home… And no one gets it but you.»
She said nothing. Clients often overshared.
«I’ve sacrificed too much for work,» he admitted. «Now I’m drowning in paperwork, deadlines. Not lazy—just… Never mind. Sorry.»
Something in his voice tugged at her. «You’re not alone. What you’re doing matters.»
He smiled—properly, for the first time. «Thank you, Karen.»
A spark flickered in her chest. Not pity. Not fatigue. Just… understanding.
«Sometimes I think I’m just doing a job,» she confessed. «But it’s more. People don’t just want help—they want to be heard.»
He nodded as if he’d thought the same. «The world’s starved of simple warmth. Thank you for being here.»
She checked her watch. «I should go. Call if you need anything else.»
«I will.» He saw her out.
On the doorstep, his words echoed: *Everything’s falling apart…*
Yes. It had. But perhaps she wasn’t the only one.
Days passed. Thoughts of the past dulled. She found comfort in small things—morning coffee, quiet flats, the rhythm of work. The betrayal’s ache softened.
Each new job, each stranger’s space, felt less alien. Karen began seeing past chores—to fears, hopes, loneliness. She stopped waiting for grand changes, cherishing tiny victories instead: an old woman’s smile, a grateful nod, the calm after work