Because of a chicken, I kicked my husband out. And I don’t regret a single bit.
That day, Laura was pushed to her limit. She’d spent the entire morning cleaning—scrubbing, dusting, picking up scattered toys, mopping floors. Finally, she peeked into the oven: the roast chicken and potatoes were golden, filling the kitchen with a scent that made her head spin.
“Ten more minutes,” she muttered, setting the timer before hurrying to the bathroom—just enough time to wipe down the tiles. Everything was going smoothly. Until the front door slammed open.
“Must be the kids,” Laura thought, but instead of her son or daughter, it was her husband—Peter—striding in, who’d claimed he was “at the garage” all morning.
“Oh, that smells divine!” he rubbed his hands together. “Nothing beats your roast chicken!”
“Call the kids, tell them dinner’s ready,” Laura shouted, turning back to the sink.
A minute later, bare feet thudded through the flat, trainers were kicked off, laughter ringing. Then—arguing. Laura abandoned the timer and stepped out, still in rubber gloves.
“What’s happened now?”
“I want the drumstick!” ten-year-old Lily shrieked.
“Me too!” eight-year-old Tommy yelled in unison.
“There’s two,” Laura sighed.
“No! There’s only one left!” Lily stomped.
Laura walked to the table. Sure enough—half the chicken was gone. Just dry breast meat and a sad, lonely potato remained.
“Where’s your dad?”
“He left. Took half the chicken and left,” Tommy mumbled.
Laura grabbed her phone. No answer. Snatching her keys, she stormed out. Rage boiled inside her—again! He always took the best for himself. Only this time, not just for him—for his mates. This wasn’t just selfishness. This was betrayal.
Behind the playground, on a bench, sat Peter with his friends. Beer in hand, chicken on his lap. Laughing, eating, licking their fingers.
“Comfortable, are you?!” Laura marched up, eyes blazing.
“Not now,” Peter hissed, glancing at his mates.
“Oh, we’ll talk now. You stole food meant for your own children! No shame? It’s bad enough you hog the best bits—now you’re feeding your drunk mates with what isn’t yours?”
“Go home before I lose my temper,” he snapped, grabbing her arm.
“Get off me!” Laura jerked free. “You’re not just selfish—you’re a thief, Peter. Stealing from your kids to feed a bunch of layabouts.”
“Stop the dramatics, Laura,” he growled, humiliated in front of his friends. “It’s just once.”
“Once? What about the fruit? The caviar from Mum you polished off in a day? The barbecue where you left the kids burnt scraps while you took all the juicy cuts?”
She turned and walked away.
That evening, when he slunk back, Laura stood by the window.
“You’d have made a right spectacle,” Peter chuckled. “‘Divorce over a chicken.’ Reality TV material.”
“I’m filing for divorce,” she said coldly. “And you still don’t get it. Not about the chicken. About your greed. Your selfishness. How you think of no one but yourself.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he scoffed. “You’re not serious.”
“To your mum’s. The same woman who taught you the best is always yours. Let her share with you now.”
Peter left, convinced it was a bluff. But the next day, Laura filed the papers. He moved in with his mother.
Two weeks later, her phone rang.
“You were right,” her ex-mother-in-law sighed. “He eats everything here too. I buy biscuits, have one—he clears the lot. Thought you were exaggerating. But he even took the last of the kettle’s boiling water without asking.”
“Want me to take him back?” Laura raised a brow.
“No… just… needed to vent, I suppose,” the woman muttered.
“Good luck, then. I’m done living with that glutton. And you know what? For once, I can finally breathe.”
