Because of a roast chicken, I kicked my husband out. And I don’t regret it one bit.
That day, Emily was utterly spent. She’d spent the entire morning cleaning, doing laundry, tidying toys, and mopping floors. Finally, she peeked into the oven—the chicken and roast potatoes were golden, filling the kitchen with a smell so good it made her dizzy.
“Just ten more minutes,” she muttered, setting the timer before dashing to the bathroom to scrub the tiles. Everything was going swimmingly. Until the front door slammed.
“Must be the kids,” Emily thought—but instead of her son or daughter, in strolled her husband, David, who’d claimed he’d been “in the garage” all morning.
“Oh, smells brilliant!” he rubbed his hands eagerly. “I love your roast chicken!”
“Call the kids, dinner’s nearly ready,” Emily shouted over her shoulder, returning to the sink.
A minute later, bare feet thundered through the house, trainers were flung aside, and laughter erupted. Then bickering. Emily stepped out, rubber gloves still on.
“What’s happened now?”
“I want a drumstick!” ten-year-old Sophie shrieked.
“Me too!” eight-year-old Oliver yelled in unison.
“There’s two,” Emily pointed out, baffled.
“No! There’s only one left!” Sophie stomped her foot.
Emily marched to the table. Sure enough—half the chicken was gone. Just dry breast meat and a lone, sad potato remained.
“Where’s your dad?”
“He left. Took half the chicken and left,” Oliver grumbled.
Emily grabbed her phone—no answer. Keys in hand, she stormed out, fury boiling inside. Not again. He’d taken the best for himself. Only this time—not even for himself, but for his mates. This wasn’t just greed—this was betrayal.
By the playground bench, David sat with his pals, beers in hand, the stolen chicken on his lap. Laughing, devouring, licking their fingers.
“Comfy, are we?” Emily snapped, eyes blazing.
“Go home, we’ll talk later,” David muttered, glancing at his mates.
“No, we’ll talk now. You swiped food I made for *our* kids! No shame? You always hog the best bits, and now you’re feeding your mates what isn’t yours?”
“Leave before I lose my temper,” he hissed, grabbing her arm.
“Let go!” Emily wrenched free. “You’re not just selfish, David—you’re a thief. Stealing from your own kids to feed your lager-louts.”
“Stop making a scene, Em,” he growled, humiliated in front of his friends. “It’s just once.”
“Once? What about the chocolates? The fancy pâté from Mum you polished off in a day? The barbecue where you left the kids charred scraps and took all the good bits?”
Emily turned and walked away.
That evening, when he returned, she stood by the window.
“You should’ve seen yourself,” David chuckled. “Divorce over a chicken. You belong on telly.”
“I’m filing for divorce,” Emily said coldly. “You still don’t get it. Not about the chicken. About your greed, your sheer rudeness, and how you never think of anyone but yourself.”
“Where’ll I go?” he scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“To your mum’s. The same one who taught you the best bits are yours. Let *her* share with you now.”
David left, certain she’d cave. But the next day, she filed the papers. He moved back with Mum.
Two weeks later, her phone rang.
“You were right,” sighed her ex-mother-in-law. “He’s eating me out of house and home. I buy biscuits, have one—he scoffs the rest. Thought you were exaggerating. But he even used the last of the kettle without asking.”
“Want me to take him back?” Emily blinked.
“Good Lord, no… just… needed a moan, I s’pose,” she huffed.
“Well—good luck with that. I’ve closed the chapter on living with a human hoover. And you know what? I can finally *breathe*.”
