The Sofa

Ravi lay on the worn-out leather sofa, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the ceiling fan filling the silence of the room. The house was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves outside the window. Yet, inside him, a storm raged – a storm that had been brewing for 18 years.

The living room bore witness to countless arguments, moments of joy, and the many compromises he had silently made. His wife, Anjali, was in the kitchen, her movements deliberate and purposeful, but he knew her mind was elsewhere. It always was – delving into the past, digging up incidents from his college days, years before they had met.

Her accusations had started as small doubts, planted like seeds in the early years of their marriage. A casual mention of an old friend, a harmless joke about his college crush, and Anjali’s face would cloud over. Over time, those seeds had grown into a dense forest of distrust, one he could no longer see through.

“Ravi,” her voice snapped him out of his thoughts. She stood at the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp with accusation. “Who was the woman you were talking to yesterday?”

He sighed. “It was Neha from the office. We were discussing the project deadline.”

Her laughter was bitter, almost mocking. “Oh, Neha. Of course. Another ‘just a friend,’ right? You’re so good at that, aren’t you? Sugar daddy to the whole office!”

The words stung, not for their insult but for the sheer futility of defending himself again. Their two teenage children, Kunal and Meera, had heard the term more times than he cared to admit. At first, they would laugh it off, thinking it was one of their mother’s sarcastic jokes. But lately, even they had started to look at him differently – curious, doubtful, as if wondering whether there was any truth in her accusations.

Ravi closed his eyes, letting her words wash over him. He had stopped fighting back years ago. He realized that no explanation, no assurance, would ever be enough.

Anjali didn’t stop there. She often reached out to his old friends, prying into his life from 15 years ago. She called them, sometimes under the guise of casual conversation, only to steer the talk toward Ravi’s relationships. “Did Ravi ever mention any girls back then?” she’d ask. “Was he close to anyone?”

When her relentless search bore no results, she invented stories – complete with tears and sorrowful expressions. She would tell anyone who listened about her husband’s supposed infidelities, painting herself as the victim of an unfaithful man.

Her words were her weapon, her tears the trump card. She had even turned a few of their mutual friends against him. At gatherings, Ravi could feel their judgmental glances, hear the whispers when he walked by.

For Ravi, trust was sacred – a cornerstone of any relationship. He had built his life on that belief, compromising, sacrificing, and trying to show Anjali that she had nothing to fear. But trust, he had come to realize, couldn’t be forced or earned. It had to come from within, and Anjali’s reservoir of trust was empty. Perhaps it always had been.

That night, as he lay on the sofa, the realization hit him with startling clarity: There was never any trust to begin with.

He thought of the years he had spent trying to prove himself to her, the moments he had bent over backward to reassure her, only for his efforts to be twisted into further evidence of his supposed guilt. He thought of the excellent phase of life they were wasting – the time they could have spent traveling, laughing, building memories with their children.

But Ravi was tired. He was done trying. Explaining himself had become a futile exercise, one that drained him of his peace and self-worth.

“Let her think what she wants,” he whispered to the ceiling. “If she’s determined to see me as the villain, so be it. I won’t spend another moment justifying myself to someone who’s already decided I’m guilty.”

The next morning, Ravi woke up early. He made himself a cup of tea and sat by the window, watching the sunrise. He didn’t feel free – freedom was a long way off – but he felt lighter, as though he had laid down a burden he had been carrying for years.

He knew the distrust wouldn’t stop, the accusations would continue, and the taunts would still echo through the house. But he also knew that he no longer needed to defend himself.

For the first time in 18 years, Ravi chose himself.