At the BBQ, my wife joked, “Who wants to trade my husband? He’s lowmaintenance but has no ambition.” Her recently divorced neighbor smirked and said, “I’ll take him.” My wife’s smile vanished when the neighbor added, “So, when should I pick him up?” The burger was halfway to my mouth when my wife said it.

 “Who wants to trade my husband? He’s lowmaintenance but has no ambition.” 20 people laughed. I froze. The burger suspended in air, smoke from the grill drifting past my face. Lisa was holding court by the deck railing, wine glass in hand, surrounded by our neighbors. the annual Fourth of July barbecue. Our backyard, our friends, our marriage being auctioned off as a punchline.

 Rachel Chen, our recently divorced neighbor from Three Doors Down, smirked over the rim of her margarita. I’ll take him. More laughter, louder this time. Lisa smiled, pined. She was enjoying this, the attention, the validation. Everyone gathered around her like she was the star of her own show. Then Rachel added, “So, when should I pick him up?” The laughter died, just stopped, cut off like someone had muted the volume. Lisa’s smile flickered.

“What? I’m serious.” Rachel sat down her drink and looked directly at me. Not at Lisa, at me. Tom seems like a great guy. You’re always complaining about him. I’d be happy to take him off your hands. The backyard went silent. You could hear the sprinkler three houses over. Someone’s dog barking, the sizzle of meat on the grill.

 Lisa forced a laugh, high-pitched, nervous. It was a joke, Rachel. Was it? Rachel took a step closer to the deck railing, closer to Lisa. Because you make these jokes every time we get together. Tom has no ambition. Tom doesn’t make enough money. Tom’s boring. Tom doesn’t understand success. Tom this, Tom that. I stood there holding my burger, beer in my other hand, watching this unfold like I was outside my own body.

 I was just kidding around, Lisa said. Her voice had gone tight, defensive. Were you? I asked quietly. Everyone turned to look at me. 20 faces, some uncomfortable, some curious, some like Rachel’s knowing. Because Rachel’s right, I continued. You do say that a lot. Lisa’s face flushed red. Not now, Tom.

 When then? I sat down my burger, put my beer on the patio table. When you’re telling your book club I’m dead weight. When you’re telling your sister I have no drive, when should we talk about it, Lisa? You’re being dramatic. Am I? I looked around at our friends and neighbors. Mike and Jennifer from next door, the Pattersons from across the street, Lisa’s work friends, my fellow teachers from Lincoln High. Show of hands.

 How many of you have heard Lisa complain about me in the last month? Silence. Then slowly, uncomfortably, hands went up. 1 2 5 7 Seven out of 20 people. Lisa’s face went white. “Tom, stop. I make $72,000 a year as a high school English teacher,” I said. My voice was calm, steady. Weird how steady it was. I coach varsity soccer on weekends.

 I do the grocery shopping, the cooking, and half the cleaning. I handle the bills. I fix things when they break. I’m lowmaintenance because I don’t need much to be happy. I paused, but apparently that’s not enough. I’ve been teaching for 8 years when I met Lisa. She was an account executive at a marketing firm downtown. Ambitious, driven, beautiful.

She wore designer suits and drank cold brew and had opinions about everything. I was grading papers at a coffee shop when she sat down at the table next to mine. Started a conversation, asked what I was reading. Student essays on The Great Gatsby, I said. God, I hated that book in high school.

 Most people do, but it’s about the American dream and how it destroys people who chase it blindly. Still relevant? She’d smiled. You actually care about teaching. Yeah, I do. We dated for 2 years. Got married at a vineyard in Napa. Honeymooned in Costa Rica. For the first 3 years, things were good. Great even.

 Then Lisa got promoted to senior account executive. started making 90,000 a year, then 110, then 135. And somewhere in that climb, I became the problem. Not explicitly, not at first. It started with small comments. My boss’s husband just made partner at his law firm. That’s so exciting. Jennifer’s husband bought her a Mercedes for their anniversary.

 So sweet. The Johnson’s are renovating their kitchen. $40,000. Can you imagine? Then it got more direct. Have you thought about getting your masters? You could make more with an advanced degree. Maybe you should look into administration. Principles make six figures. I saw a posting for corporate training positions.

 You’d be good at that. I tried explaining that I like teaching, that I didn’t want to be a principal or a corporate trainer, that money wasn’t everything. She’d say she understood. Then she’d make another comment. 6 months ago, her book club met at our house. I brought out cheese and crackers, said hello, then went to grade papers in my office.

 I could hear them through the wall. Lisa’s voice. Tom’s content with where he is, which is fine, I guess, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be with someone more ambitious. Someone asked, “Are you happy?” Long pause. I don’t know anymore. I’d sat there with my red pen frozen over a student’s essay about Holden Caulfield, feeling something crack inside me, but I didn’t say anything.

 I told myself she was just venting that everyone complained about their spouse sometimes. Then came the comments to her sister. Tom’s a great guy, just not a go-getter, you know. To her mother, he’s comfortable being comfortable. I need more than that. To her co-workers at a dinner party, my husband teaches high school. It’s noble, but not exactly lucrative.

 Each comment landed like a small cut. Individually, they were survivable, but collectively they bled. “That’s not what I meant,” Lisa said now, her voice shaking. “Then what did you mean?” Rachel asked. She was standing with her arms crossed, confident, unbothered. “Because I’ve heard you say he’s a disappointment at least five times since my divorce.

” Lisa glared at her. “Stay out of this, Rachel.” “No,” Rachel said simply. “Because you just offered to trade him like he’s a used car in front of 20 people, and I’m genuinely interested,” she looked at me. “When can I pick you up, Tom? This is insane,” Lisa started. “I’ll go pack,” I said. The yard went silent again. dead silent.

 What? Lisa’s voice cracked. You heard Rachel. She wants to trade. I accept the terms. Tom, you’re not serious. Why not? I looked at her. Really? Looked at her. You’ve made it clear I’m not what you want. Rachel seems to think I’m worth something. Let’s see if she’s right. I walked toward the house. Lisa grabbed my arm. Her fingers dug in.

 You’re embarrassing me. I stopped, turned. I’m embarrassing you. I pulled my arm free, gently, but firmly. Lisa, you’ve been embarrassing me for months, publicly. To our friends, to strangers. You joke about trading me like I’m nothing, like I’m a burden you’re stuck with. It was a joke. Jokes are supposed to be funny.

 Nobody’s laughing anymore. I went inside. Our bedroom was exactly as I’d left it this morning. Bed made, laundry folded, my side of the closet organized by color because that’s the kind of thing I did that drove Lisa crazy. Why do you care if your shirts are organized? Once it’s nice, makes me happy.

 It’s such a waste of time. I pulled out my gym bag from the closet, started packing t-shirts, jeans, toiletries, my laptop, chargers, the book I was reading, Educated by Tara Westover. Lisa burst through the door. Where are you going? Rachel’s place apparently since you put me on the market. Tom, please. She was crying now. Real tears. I didn’t mean it.

 I was just just what? I kept packing, methodical, calm, just tearing me down in front of everyone we know. Just making sure they all understood you settled for someone beneath you. That’s not show of hands, Lisa. Seven people raised their hands. Seven of our friends have heard you complain about me in the last month alone.

 How many more didn’t raise their hands because they didn’t want to embarrass you further? She had no answer. You’ve said that before, I said quietly. That you’d stop. That you didn’t mean it. But you keep doing it. I zipped up the bag. Tom, don’t do this. Not over a stupid joke. It wasn’t a joke, Lisa. It was a pattern. I looked at her.

 You want someone with ambition? Someone who makes six figures? Someone who drives a BMW and wears designer suits? Go find them. I’m done being your punchline. I walked past her. She followed me down the stairs through the living room toward the back door. Tom, please. We can work on this. I’ll go to therapy. Couples counseling. Whatever you want.

 I’ve asked you to go to coup’s counseling three times in the last year. You said we didn’t need it, that I was overreacting. I was wrong. Yeah, you were. I walked back outside. The barbecue had imploded. People were gathering their things, making excuses about needing to get home. The Pattersons were already gone. Mike and Jennifer were loading their cooler.

Rachel was still there, standing by the grill, calm, waiting. Still offering? I asked. She nodded. My guest room’s made up. Clean sheets. You’re welcome to it, Tom. Lisa ran after me. Her voice was desperate. Raw. You can’t just leave. You offered to trade me. Rachel accepted. Deal’s done. I didn’t think that’s the problem, Lisa.

 You didn’t think. You didn’t think about how it would make me feel. You didn’t think about the consequences. You just said it like you’ve been saying things for months. The remaining guests were watching now, unable to leave, unable to look away. Lisa turned to them. Tell him this is crazy. Tell him he’s overreacting. Silence.

 Then Mike spoke up. Quiet. Careful. You made the offer, Lisa. In front of all of us. It was a joke. Then why isn’t anyone laughing? Rachel asked. She picked up my bag and started walking toward her house. Three doors down, white with blue trim. I’d helped her move in after her divorce last year. I followed. Tom.

 Lisa’s voice was shrill now. Panicked. Come back. We need to talk about this. I stopped at the property line, turned. We’ve been talking about it for months, Lisa. Every time you made a joke about me, every time you told someone I wasn’t enough, every time you compared me to other husbands who made more money or had better jobs or drove nicer cars, I paused.

 You just never thought I was listening. Rachel opened her front door. By the way, I said, looking back at the small crowd of neighbors still frozen in our backyard. I’m not lowmaintenance because I lack ambition. I’m low maintenance because I was happy with what I had. I looked at Lisa one last time. But you never were. I walked through Rachel’s door.

 She closed it behind us, leaving my wife standing in the yard she’d just humiliated me in. Finally understanding that some trades once offered can’t be taken back. Rachel’s guest room was on the second floor. Clean, simple. A queen bed with white linens, a dresser, a window overlooking the street, bathrooms down the hall, she said.

 Towels in the closet. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Thank you for what? For calling her out. For offering me an exit. Rachel leaned against the door frame. I’ve been where you are. Sort of. My ex-husband spent 2 years tearing me down before I finally left. Little comments. Jokes about my weight, my job, how I dressed.

Death by a thousand cuts. I’m sorry. Don’t be. Leaving him was the best thing I ever did. She smiled. Small. Sad. You deserved better than what just happened out there. So did you. She left me alone. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone. 17 missed calls from Lisa. 43 texts.

 I scrolled through them. I’m sorry. Please come home. We need to talk. I didn’t mean it. Everyone’s gone. I’m so embarrassed. Please, Tom. I love you. I turned off my phone. I didn’t sleep that night. Just lay there in Rachel’s guest room, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last year of my marriage. The comments, the jokes, the comparisons, the slow erosion of my self-worth.

 I’d told myself it wasn’t that bad. That Lisa was just stressed from work. that she didn’t mean the things she said, but she did mean them, and I’d let it happen. At 6:47 a.m., there was a knock on my door. Yeah. Rachel poked her head in. I’m making coffee. Want some, please? I followed her downstairs.

 Her kitchen was smaller than ours. Cozy. She had plants on the window sill, a French press on the counter. NPR playing softly from a radio. How’d you sleep? She asked. Didn’t? Yeah, I figured. She poured two cups, black, strong. What happens now? I asked. That’s up to you. I don’t know what I want. That’s okay.

 You don’t have to know yet. We sat at her kitchen table drinking coffee, watching the sun come up through the window. At 7:15 a.m., my phone buzzed. I’d turned it back on. Mistake. Lisa. I called in sick to work. Can we please talk? Me. Not today. Lisa, when? Me? I don’t know. Lisa. Tom, please. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything.

 I put the phone face down on the table. She’s panicking. Rachel observed. Yeah, good. Is it? Yes, because maybe now she understands what she did. I went to work Monday. Teaching felt normal, safe. I could disappear into lesson plans and classroom management and discussions about symbolism in To Kill a Mockingbird.

 My students didn’t know my wife had traded me away at a barbecue. They just knew Mr. Harper was tired and maybe a little quieter than usual. At lunch, I got a call from an unknown number. I answered, “Hello, Tom Harper.” A woman’s voice professional. This is Margaret Chen from Chen and Associates Family Law.

 Your wife Lisa hired me to represent her in discussions about your marriage. My stomach dropped. She hired a lawyer. She wanted to demonstrate that she’s serious about reconciliation. She’s asked me to facilitate a conversation between you two, preferably with a couple’s therapist present. She couldn’t just ask me herself. She said you weren’t responding to her messages.

I responded. I said, “Not today.” Mr. Harper, I understand you’re upset, but Lisa is genuinely remorseful. She’s willing to attend therapy, make changes, whatever it takes. Is she willing to stop humiliating me in public? Pause. She acknowledges that her behavior was hurtful and inappropriate.

 That’s not an answer. Mr. Harper, tell her I’ll think about it. I hung up. That night, Rachel made dinner. Pasta carbonara, garlic bread, a simple salad. You didn’t have to do this, I said. I know, but I like cooking and you look like you need a decent meal. We ate in her dining room talking about nothing important.

 Her job as a graphic designer, my students, the weather. It was nice. Normal. Nobody made jokes about my ambition or my salary or my life choices. After dinner, she poured two glasses of wine. Can I ask you something? She said, “Sure. How long has this been going on?” The comments, the jokes. I thought about it. A year maybe. It got worse 6 months ago.

Did you ever confront her? Sort of. I’d mention that something hurt my feelings. She’d apologize, say she didn’t mean it, then she’d do it again 2 weeks later. Classic pattern. You sound like a therapist. I saw a therapist for 2 years after my divorce. You learn things. She sipped her wine.

 My ex used to do the same thing. Make a cutting comment. Apologize when I called him out, then do it again. Eventually, I realized the apology didn’t mean anything. It was just a reset button so he could keep doing it. How did you finally leave? He made a joke at his company’s holiday party about my weight in front of his boss and 50 co-workers.

 Said I’d really let myself go since the wedding. She smiled bitterly. I left the party, filed for divorce 3 days later. I’m sorry. Don’t be. Best decision I ever made. She looked at me. You know what the worst part was? What? I’d started to believe him, that I wasn’t attractive anymore, that I was lucky he stayed with me, that I should be grateful. She paused.

 Took me a year of therapy to undo that damage. I stared at my wine. Tom, yeah, you’re a good person. You’re a good teacher. You contribute to society in meaningful ways. Don’t let her make you think otherwise. She’s my wife. She’s a person who hurt you repeatedly. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Wednesday afternoon, Lisa showed up at Lincoln High.

 I was in my classroom after school grading essays when there was a knock on the door. I looked up. Lisa, she looked terrible. Hair unwashed, no makeup, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. I’d never seen her in sweatpants in public. Can we talk? She asked quietly. How did you get in? I signed in at the office. Said I was your wife. You can’t just show up at my work.

I know. I’m sorry, but you won’t answer my calls. You won’t come home. I’m desperate, Tom. I set down my pen. What do you want, Lisa? I want to fix this. I want to go to therapy. I want Her voice broke. I want my husband back. The husband you were trying to trade away. She flinched. That was a joke. I know you’ve said that.

 I stood up, crossed my arms. But here’s the thing, Lisa. It wasn’t the first joke. It was just the most public one. I know. I’ve been horrible. I’m so sorry. Why? What? Why were you horrible? What did I do to deserve months of public humiliation? She started crying. Nothing. You didn’t do anything. I just I got caught up in comparing.

 Everyone at work has these successful spouses and I started feeling like I’d settled, like I’d made the wrong choice. She looked at me, but I didn’t. You’re everything I need. I just couldn’t see it because I don’t make six figures. Because I’m an idiot who confused success with happiness. I sat back down, suddenly tired. Lisa, I’ve spent 8 months feeling like I’m not enough. Like I’m a disappointment.

 Like you’re embarrassed to be married to me. Do you understand how that feels? I do now. Do you? because you hired a lawyer before you tried apologizing yourself. That was Margaret’s idea. I don’t care whose idea it was. It was the wrong move. She pulled up a chair, sat across from my desk like a parent at a conference.

 Tell me what you need, she said. Tell me how to fix this. I need time. How much time? I don’t know, but I can’t just come home and pretend everything’s fine. I’m not asking you to pretend. I’m asking you to give me a chance to prove I can change. You had chances. Every time I told you something hurt, that was a chance.

 I know I wasted them. I’m asking for one more. I looked at her. really looked. She’d lost weight, had dark circles under her eyes, her hands were shaking. She was suffering. Good. Maybe she needed to suffer to understand what she’d done. I’ll think about it, I said finally. Thank you. I’m not promising anything. I know.

 She stood up, hesitated at the door. Tom, yeah. Rachel didn’t really want you. You know that, right? She was just making a point. I know. Are you staying with her in her guest room? Yes. Are you? She couldn’t finish the question. Sleeping with her? No. She’s a friend. Someone who understands what it’s like to be torn down by a spouse. Lisa’s face crumpled.

 That’s what I did to you, isn’t it? Yes. She left without another word. That night, Rachel and I sat on her back porch drinking beer, watching fireflies. Lisa came to see me today. I said, “Yeah, how’d that go? She wants to go to therapy. Fix things.” What do you want? I don’t know.  I looked at her. What? You know what you want? You’re just afraid to say it.

 What do I want then? You want her to hurt the way you’ve been hurting. You want her to understand what she did, to really feel it. Then you want her to gravel to prove she’s changed. And only then, maybe will you consider taking her back? I stared at my beer. “Am I wrong?” Rachel asked. “No.” “Then take your time.

 Don’t rush back because you feel guilty or because she’s suffering. Rush back when and if you actually want to. Is that what you did? No, I left and never went back. But my ex never apologized, never acknowledged what he did wrong. If he had, maybe things would have been different. She shrugged. Or maybe not. Some things break too completely to fix.

 Two weeks later, Lisa and I met with a therapist. Dr. Patricia Enuan, licensed marriage and family therapist with 19 years of experience. Her office was in a converted house near downtown. comfortable chairs, soft lighting, a white noise machine by the door. Thank you both for coming. Dr. Naguan said, “Lisa, you reached out to schedule this session.

 Can you tell me why?” Lisa took a deep breath. I hurt my husband repeatedly publicly. I made jokes about him, complained about him to friends, made him feel like he wasn’t enough, and I want to fix it, Tom. Is that accurate? Yes. How do you feel about being here? Honestly, conflicted. Part of me wants to fix this.

 Part of me thinks it’s already broken. Can you elaborate? Lisa’s apologized. Said she’ll change, but she’s said that before. How do I trust that this time is different? Dr. Nuen nodded. That’s a valid concern. Lisa, how do you respond? I understand why he doesn’t trust me. I wouldn’t trust me either, but I’m willing to do the work.

 Therapy, communication, exercises, whatever it takes. Why now? I asked. Why not 6 months ago when I first told you it was a problem? Lisa’s eyes filled with tears because I didn’t think you’d actually leave. I thought you’d just deal with it because you always dealt with things, so you kept pushing. Yes. And I was wrong.

I’m so so wrong. Dr. Guen intervened. Tom, what would rebuilding trust look like for you? I don’t know. Actions, I guess, not words. Proof that things are actually different, such as no more jokes about me in public. No more comparing me to other people’s spouses. No more comments about my job or my salary or my ambition. Actual respect.

Lisa, is that something you can commit to? Absolutely. Even when you’re stressed, frustrated, when you’re with friends and the conversation turns to complaining about spouses. Lisa hesitated. I’ll try. Try isn’t good enough, I said. Then yes, I commit. No more jokes, no more comparisons, no more disrespect. And if you slip up,” Dr.

Naguan asked. I’ll own it immediately. Apologize. Make it right. We scheduled weekly sessions. I didn’t move back home. Over the next 6 weeks, things slowly changed. Lisa stopped calling constantly. Stopped showing up uninvited. Gave me space. She sent me articles she thought I’d like. Made reservations at restaurants for potential dates.

 Asked about my students, small things. In therapy, we talked about communication, about resentment, about the difference between ambition and contentment. I think I resented you for being happy, Lisa admitted in our fifth session. Everyone at work is stressed, miserable, chasing promotions and bonuses, and you were just content teaching, coaching, reading. I didn’t understand it.

 Did you want me to be miserable? I asked, “No, I wanted you to want more like I do, but I don’t want more. I have enough. I know that now. Do you?” “Yes, and I’m working on accepting it. On accepting that your version of success is different from mine, and that’s okay.” Dr. Veruian smiled. That’s progress.

 After the session, Lisa asked if I wanted to get coffee. We went to the place where we’d met, ordered the same drinks we’d ordered 9 years ago. I miss you, she said. I miss you, too. Will you come home? Not yet. When? When I trust you again. How long will that take? I don’t know. She nodded, accepting. We talked for 2 hours about work, friends, her parents, my students.

 It felt almost normal. Almost. 3 months after the barbecue, I moved back home. Not because Lisa pressured me, because I wanted to. We’d had 12 therapy sessions, dozens of conversations, slow, painful progress. She’d kept her promise. No jokes, no comparisons, no public humiliation. She’d started introducing me as my husband who teaches high school with pride instead of apology.

 Small things, but they mattered. The first night back, we ordered pizza and watched a movie on the couch. This okay? Lisa asked. Or too fast. It’s okay. I’m glad you’re home. Me, too? She leaned against me. Careful. Tentative. I’m still scared I’ll mess this up, she said quietly. You might. What happens if I do? Then we deal with it together.

 But honestly, Lisa, if you humiliate me in public again, I’m gone for good. I know. I mean it. I know. And I won’t. I promise.