Because of a Chicken, I Kicked Out My Husband. And I Don’t Regret It One Bit
That day, Sarah was utterly drained. She’d spent the entire morning cleaning, doing laundry, tidying up toys, and mopping floors. At last, she peeked into the oven—her roast chicken with potatoes was perfectly golden, filling the kitchen with a smell so divine it could make anyone weak at the knees.
“Just ten more minutes,” she muttered, setting the timer before dashing off to scrub the bathroom tiles. Everything was going smoothly—until the front door slammed.
“Must be the kids,” Sarah thought. But it wasn’t her son or daughter standing there. It was her husband, James, who’d claimed he’d been “out in the shed” all morning.
“Blimey, that smells brilliant!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Nothing beats your roast!”
“Call the kids, dinner’s nearly ready,” Sarah called over her shoulder, returning to the sink.
A minute later, the sound of little feet thudded through the house—shoes were tossed aside, laughter erupted. Then came the bickering. Sarah stepped out, rubber gloves still on.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“I want a drumstick!” screeched ten-year-old Emily.
“Me too!” eight-year-old Oliver hollered in unison.
“There are two,” Sarah pointed out, baffled.
“No! There’s only one left!” Emily stamped her foot.
Sarah marched to the table. Sure enough, half the chicken had vanished. Only dry breast meat and a lone, sad potato remained.
“Where’s your dad?”
“He left. Took half the chicken and walked out,” Oliver grumbled.
Sarah grabbed her phone—no answer from James. Snatching her keys, she stormed out. Rage bubbled inside her. Again! He’d picked the best for himself. Only this time, he wasn’t even eating it alone—he was sharing it with his mates. This wasn’t just greed anymore. This was a betrayal of their home.
Behind the playground, there he was—James, perched on a bench with his buddies. Beer in hand, the stolen chicken on his lap. Laughing, gnawing, licking his fingers.
“Comfy, are we?” Sarah hissed, eyes blazing.
“Not now, love,” James muttered, glancing at his friends.
“Oh, we’re talking *now*! You nicked food I made for *our children*! Have you no shame? You always hoard the best bits, but now you’re feeding your mates with what isn’t even yours?”
“Piss off before I lose my temper,” he snapped, grabbing her arm.
“Let go!” Sarah yanked free. “You’re not just selfish—you’re a thief, James. A thief who pinches food from his own kids to feed his drinking pals.”
“Stop being dramatic, Sal,” he seethed, humiliated in front of his mates. “It’s just this once.”
“Once? What about the chocolates? The fancy jam from Mum you polished off in a day? The barbecue where the kids got charred scraps while you hogged the good stuff?”
Sarah turned on her heel and left.
That evening, when James stumbled back, she was by the window.
“You should’ve seen yourself,” he scoffed. “Divorce over a chicken? You belong on one of those telly dramas.”
“I *am* filing for divorce,” Sarah said coldly. “And you still don’t get it. Not about the chicken. About your greed, your thoughtlessness—your utter selfishness.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he sneered. “You’re off your rocker.”
“To your mum’s. The same woman who taught you the best bits are *yours*. Let *her* share with you now.”
James left, convinced Sarah was joking. The next day, she filed the papers. His mother took him in.
Two weeks later, her phone rang.
“You were right,” her ex-mother-in-law sighed. “He’s eating me out of house and home. I buy sweets, have one—he scoffs the lot. Thought you were exaggerating. But he even took the last of the kettle’s boiling water without asking.”
“D’you want me to take him back?” Sarah asked, stunned.
“God, no… just… needed a moan, I s’pose,” the woman chuckled.
“Well—good luck. I’ve closed the book on living with that human vacuum. And you know what? For the first time in ages… I can *breathe*.”
