“Well, my little monkey is tidying up at my mother-in-law’s right now!” he declared loudly at the office party. But back home, a very different mood was waiting for him…

The evening had started brilliantly for Vincent. New Year’s was just around the corner, his bonus was already in the bank, and the room buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and upbeat music. He was the life of the party—quick-witted, full of cheer, turning every little story into something that even the most reserved colleagues couldn’t help but chuckle at. People adored him for his ability to lighten the mood.

“My little monkey’s scrubbing the floors at Mum’s tonight!” he announced, raising his glass. “Wouldn’t want her distracting me while I’m keeping you lot entertained!”

The room erupted in laughter again. Some clapped approvingly, others chuckled nervously. Only one woman from the next department abruptly looked away. The word “monkey” stung. It reminded her of her own sister—joked about the same way by her husband… before he left her for a younger student.

But Vincent? He wasn’t thinking about anyone’s pain. He felt like the king of the party. Life seemed golden, effortless.

Meanwhile, back home, Olivia, his wife, stood at the stove in their cramped kitchen. Her hands were red and cracked from endless scrubbing and harsh cleaning products. Since dawn, she’d washed windows, helped his mother with the winter preserves, dashed to the shops, then rushed back to the stove. Vincent’s mother was a tough woman—strict, demanding, impatient. “A wife should run a tight ship!” she always said.

Olivia never complained. She knew her husband worked hard, came home exhausted, and she wanted to be his rock. Sometimes, she just wished for a word of thanks. But she endured it. Because she loved him.

Late that night, once the kids were asleep and her mother-in-law had gone to bed, Olivia opened her phone and stumbled onto a livestream from the party. One of the employees was broadcasting—laughter, music… and then:

“My little monkey’s scrubbing the floors at Mum’s right now!”

Olivia froze. It took her a second to realize.

Monkey?

He meant *her*?

When Vincent finally staggered home in the early hours—tipsy, smelling of whiskey and someone else’s perfume—Olivia didn’t say a word. Just stared at him. Long. Silent. No tears.

For the first time, he felt fear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.

She wordlessly placed her phone in front of him and played the recording.

His smile vanished. The silence in the room was suffocating.

“It was just a joke… You know how things get at these things,” he muttered.

“A joke?” Olivia replied calmly. “Did you know your mother had me cleaning her place all day? That I barely ate because she kept piling tasks on me? That your *‘little monkey’* was running to the pharmacy alone when our son spiked a fever while you were out laughing?”

Her voice was steady, but inside—ice.

Vincent looked down.

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

She stood, walked to the kids’ room, returned with a bag and coat. Slowly, she started putting them on. He didn’t speak. No words came.

“Where are you going?”

“Somewhere I won’t be called a monkey for laughs.”

And she left. No shouting, no drama. Just gone. Not from exhaustion, not from routine—from the pain of her work being turned into a punchline.

Three days later, Vincent went to her. No jokes, no charm, no drink in hand. Just a man realizing what he’d lost.

“Forgive me,” he said, standing at the door.

She didn’t answer. No anger in her eyes—just weariness and deep quiet.

“I was a fool. I won’t be that man again.”

“Then start acting like it.”

He nodded.

From that day on, he stopped making jokes about family at parties. He helped more, said thank you, noticed things he’d ignored. And he learned one hard truth: even the strongest women get tired—especially the ones working while others celebrate.

A week passed.

Olivia didn’t come home straight away. She stayed with her younger sister—a warm little flat that smelled of baking and kindness. No pressure, no judgment, just a soft “sit down, I’ll make tea.”

She didn’t cry. Just sat by the window, watching raindrops trail down the glass. Memories swirled—Vincent’s voice, laughter, strangers’ stares… and the hollowness inside.

And Vincent? For the first time, he faced himself.

His mother was indignant at first.

“How *dare* she walk out? Must be my fault!”

But watching her son sit silent at meals, barely touching his food, she started wondering—maybe it wasn’t so simple.

One evening, she knocked on his door.

“Vincent… She’s a good girl. You messed up. Bring her back—but not with words. Actions.”

He nodded. No argument.

The next day, he took leave. Bought a simple bouquet—not flashy roses, just daisies, the kind Olivia loved since she was a girl. Stopped at the chemist for hand cream. Then the appliance shop. Then the kitchenware aisle. Not for show—for a fresh start.

He stood at Olivia’s sister’s door, gathering himself before ringing the bell.

She opened it. Silence again—but different now. Not heavy. Just waiting.

“Hey,” he said softly. “I’m rubbish with speeches, but I figured something out—I dug this hole myself. You’re not a ‘monkey.’ You’re my home. My peace. The one holding me up.”

He handed her the bag—daisies, cream, and a note without fuss:

*You were tired. I didn’t see it. Let’s start over. Love, Vincent.*

She studied him a long moment before taking it.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll wait.”

She came home two days later. Not because she’d forgotten—but because he wasn’t just apologizing. He was changing.

Now they cooked together. His mother, noticing the shift, softened. Sometimes even offering, “Olivia, rest—I’ll handle this.”

And once, when another office party rolled around, Vincent declined.

“Why?” his boss asked.

“Because there’s someone at home who matters more than any toast. I’d rather wash dishes than take her for granted again.”

Later, on an ordinary evening, kids asleep, Olivia leaned her head against his shoulder.

“You know… I don’t feel so tired anymore. Thank you.”

He didn’t answer. Just kissed her hair.

And realized—those were the words he’d wanted all along. Not grand, not performative. Just real.

Months passed.

Their family was different. Not in events, but in feeling. The air in the house, their tones, the way they looked at each other. Vincent learned to notice—when Olivia was tired, when her silence lingered too long.

If his mother grumbled, he didn’t look away.

“Mum, enough. She’s not here to please everyone. She’s my wife, not a maid.”

At first, his mother sulked. But slowly, she interfered less. Maybe seeing Olivia—not as duty, but as a woman—for the first time.

One night, the three of them sat at the table. Vincent poured tea. Olivia sliced cake. His mother suddenly looked at her and said quietly,

“You’re not so bad, really. Wish I’d had a daughter-in-law like you—might’ve made me kinder.”

Olivia didn’t reply. Just gave her the biggest slice. And for the first time in years, they smiled at each other—no bitterness.

At work, Vincent wasn’t the joker anymore. He was quieter, thoughtful. Colleagues wondered—where’d the fun guy go? But soon, they respected this steadier version. Especially those who’d known neglect themselves.

When a new hire joked,

“Oi, Vincent—where’s your monkey?”

He answered evenly,

“I don’t have one. I’ve got a woman who taught me how to be a proper husband.”

And everyone knew—drop it.

One winter evening, kids asleep, Olivia pulled out an old box—letters from her newlywed days.

“Want to hear one?”

“Course.”

She unfolded a page—young, hopeful scribbles:

*I want him to laugh, but not at me. To kiss my hands after cleaning, knowing their smell. To be proud of me, even at home. Because home’s a whole world. And I’m its heart.*

He listened. Silent. Something tightening inside.

“Sorry it took me so long to hear that,” he whispered.

“Just glad you did.”

Come spring, they took their first trip alone in years—no kids, no parents. His mum babysat. On the beach, Vincent bought Olivia a shell from an old vendor.

“You said you wanted to be seen. Now—He pressed the shell into her palm, whispering, “Like this sea—you should never have to prove your worth to anyone again.”