The Women They Leave at Home

Written by Joni Roberts

Traveler, storyteller, and public health advocate

There is one woman I never get to meet.

She doesn't flirt with me.

She doesn't compliment me.

She doesn't ask for my number.

She isn't sitting across the table telling me I'm one of the angels the Bible talks about.

In fact, she's rarely in the room at all.

She's at home.

At least, that's what I'm told.

Over the past year, I've had more conversations with married men than I ever intended.

Not because I sought them out.

Because they found me.

The conversation usually begins the same way.

"You're beautiful."

"You are my type."

"I've never met anyone like you."

And then, somewhere in the conversation, almost as an afterthought, comes the revelation.

"I have a wife."

I've gotten so used to waiting for that part that I almost expect it now.

What fascinates me isn't that they're married.

It's what comes next.

Always...

Always...

There is an explanation.

"She's changed."

"She doesn't smile anymore."

"She doesn't understand me."

"She's difficult."

"She's always angry."

"We're together for the children."

"The marriage isn't real."

"She's misbehaving."

Every country seems to have its own version.

Different words.

Same script.

The first few times I heard these explanations, I mostly ignored them.

Not because I believed them.

Not because I didn't.

Because they weren't relevant to my answer.

"I don't do married men."

End of discussion.

Or at least, it should have been.

But the more I heard these stories, the more I found myself wondering about someone else entirely.

Her.

Who is she?

The woman whose entire existence gets summarized in one sentence.

The woman who "doesn't smile anymore."

Why doesn't she smile anymore?

Has anyone asked?

Maybe she is exhausted.

Maybe she's raising children while her husband travels.

Maybe she's carrying the emotional labor of an entire household.

Maybe she has dreams no one asks about anymore.

Maybe she laughs all the time.

Just not with him.

I don't know.

And that's precisely the point.

I don't know.

Neither do they.

At least not in the version of the story I'm being told.

One thing travel has taught me is that every story has multiple narrators.

The version we hear depends entirely on who's speaking.

When a man tells me his wife is difficult...

What would she say?

When he tells me she no longer smiles...

Would she tell me she's tired?

When he says she has changed...

Would she tell me he did?

It's remarkable how easily women disappear from men's stories.

Not physically.

Narratively.

They become plot devices.

Obstacles.

Reasons.

Explanations.

She isn't a person anymore.

She's the reason the marriage isn't working.

And then...

Enter me.

The cheerful traveler.

The woman who smiles.

The woman who laughs at his jokes.

The woman who feels light because she hasn't spent years carrying the weight of his expectations.

Of course I seem different.

I'm seeing him for an afternoon.

She's been seeing him for years.

I often think about what he sees when he looks at me.

He sees curiosity.

Adventure.

Joy.

Lightness.

He doesn't see jet lag.

Grant deadlines.

Faculty meetings.

Family worries.

The grief I've carried.

The loneliness that sometimes comes with living out of a suitcase.

He meets me in a moment.

She knows me in a lifetime.

And yet somehow...

I'm the comparison.

That's not a fair comparison for either of us.

Sometimes people ask whether these conversations bother me.

Honestly?

Not usually.

I find them fascinating.

What does bother me is how easily another woman becomes invisible in the telling.

I've never once had a man say,

"My wife is incredible."

"She's sacrificed so much for our family."

"We've grown apart, but I still respect her deeply."

Instead, she's often reduced to the problem that needs solving.

As women, I think we've all experienced some version of this.

Maybe not in marriage.

Maybe at work.

Maybe in friendships.

We become someone's explanation.

She's emotional.

She's difficult.

She's intimidating.

She's too ambitious.

She's too quiet.

She's changed.

It's amazing how often women are described instead of understood.

As I continue wandering, I've become increasingly interested in the stories that aren't told.

The people who aren't speaking.

The voices that never make it into the conversation.

Public health has taught me that silence is data.

Who's missing?

Whose perspective isn't represented?

Who benefits from the story being told this way?

Those questions don't stop being useful just because we're talking about relationships

instead of research.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if I met the wives.

Would we laugh together?

Would we compare notes?

Would she roll her eyes when I repeated his pickup lines?

Would she say,

"Oh yes...

He said that to me too."

Or maybe she'd surprise me completely.

Maybe she'd tell a story I never saw coming.

Maybe she'd defend him.

Maybe she'd tell me their marriage is beautiful.

Maybe she'd tell me they're struggling but trying.

Maybe she'd say none of what I assumed was true.

I don't know.

Because I've only ever been given one side of the story.

Travel has made me slower to believe easy narratives.

Especially the ones that require another woman to become the villain.

I've realized that every time someone asks me to choose between two strangers, I'm missing information.

So instead...

I stay curious.

I listen.

I hold compassion for the woman I'll probably never meet.

And I remember that no one deserves to be reduced to a single sentence.

Not even the wife who "doesn't smile anymore."

Especially her.

What I'm Still Wandering...

Why are women so often introduced into conversations only as explanations for men's unhappiness?

What stories would emerge if we asked the wives to tell them instead?

How often do we reduce people to the role they play in our own narrative?

What responsibility do we have to question the stories that make someone else the problem?

And perhaps the question I hope to keep asking, whether in research, relationships, or travel...

Whose voice is missing?

I don't know what those women would tell me.

But if I ever have the chance to listen...

I hope I do more listening than talking.

I'm still collecting data.

And I'm still wandering.