It was a moment of quiet reckoning, a decision made in the silence of one’s own heart.
With a tray in hand, Margaret had endured the endless queue in the canteen before finally stepping up to the counter. “Three bowls of soup, three plates of shepherd’s pie, and three glasses of lemonade, please,” she said hurriedly. There wasn’t enough space on the tray, forcing her to glance repeatedly at the table where her husband, John, and their ten-year-old son, William, waited. William, of course, was too young to realise his mother might need help—but John sat absorbed in his phone, oblivious. Resigned, Margaret made two trips, enduring the disapproving glances of those still waiting.
As she set the food down, John finally looked up—not at her, but at his plate. He lifted a spoonful of soup, sniffed, and scowled. “Pea soup? I hate pea soup. You could have asked.”
“You could have come and chosen yourself,” Margaret replied wearily. “I’m not a mind reader.”
John scoffed. “Oh, sure! As if we’d both queue up together. A simple question would’ve sufficed.”
Margaret bent over her own meal and let the remark pass. Arguing was pointless. John was always like this—never satisfied, always complaining. Worse, William was beginning to mimic him.
“Ugh, Mum, shepherd’s pie? You know I don’t like it,” the boy whined.
“Our mother only thinks of herself,” John muttered, still scrolling, yet shovelling in the very soup he’d just criticised.
“Eat what’s in front of you,” Margaret snapped, then glanced around, hoping no one had heard. The canteen was packed—holidaymakers rushing to eat before heading to the beach. She had planned the same, though she wondered if John would actually join them or stay brooding in their room. He’d already complained about the distance to the shore—yet another thing that was apparently her fault.
Breakfast done, Margaret gathered the plates, noticing an elegant couple from the next room enter. The woman, polished and poised, settled gracefully at a table while her husband went to queue. Before leaving, he turned to her. “Darling, which dessert would you like today?”
Margaret caught the words as she carried the tray away, alone—John and William had already wandered off. It wasn’t the first time she’d envied that woman. Where did men like that even come from?
There was a time, long ago, when John had seemed the same—attentive, affectionate. He’d meet her after work, cook together, share evenings. When had it changed? Probably after William was born. Maternity leave made it seem natural that she handle everything—cooking, cleaning, the baby. Then she went back to work, but the burden never shifted.
And John? He took it for granted, then started nitpicking—the shirts weren’t pressed well, the pasta was stale. Margaret absorbed every criticism, scrambling to fix her “mistakes.” After all, John wasn’t a bad man. He worked, didn’t stray. He came home straight after his job. If he was perpetually irritable, well—that was just his nature.
Outside, she hurried to catch up. John and William were already far ahead, not even glancing back.
“Right, back to the room?” she panted as she reached them. “Change, then the beach?”
“In this heat, trudging all that way?” John rolled his eyes. “Brilliant choice of resort, Margaret. Fine, let’s get it over with.”
By the time they reached the pebble beach, the sun was blistering. John tore off his shorts and T-shirt, sprinted into the water with William, then shouted back: “Sort the loungers and umbrella!”
Margaret seethed. She was hot too. She wanted to swim. Why was it her job to pay and set up while he enjoyed himself? Was that also a wife’s duty? Still, she obeyed, trudging to the kiosk. No sense making a scene.
In the water, she stayed shallow—not a strong swimmer. As soon as she waded in, John left William with her and swam off alone. He always did. What infuriated her more was when he left early.
“I’m heading back,” he announced after an hour. “The AC’s calling.”
“Stay a bit longer?” she pleaded.
“No. Too hot.”
He dressed and left, not even taking the water bottle or inflatables William might need.
So the holiday went—John sulking while Margaret scurried, booking excursions he’d then grumble about. The trip ended, and she felt no more rested than before.
Packing that last night, John and William asleep, she paused on the balcony. The cicadas hummed; the air was thick. A lighter clicked behind her—the elegant neighbour, smoking.
“Can’t sleep?” the woman asked.
“We leave at five,” Margaret sighed. “Just finished packing.”
“Alone?”
“John’s been asleep for hours.”
The woman exhaled. “Forgive my bluntness, but your husband doesn’t appreciate you.”
Margaret laughed bitterly. “You noticed?”
Under the dim glow of the cigarette, she confessed—how John had changed, how she bore it, how William was learning the same disregard.
The woman listened, then said softly, “I was like you once. We even divorced—for two years. When we reunited, I’d learned to love myself. So here’s my advice: decide you’ll leave if he won’t change. Not that you must, but decide. Tomorrow, sit at the table. Let him queue. Yes, there’ll be fights. But your son is watching—don’t let him grow up thinking women are servants.”
Margaret stayed on the balcony long after the woman left.
At five, she woke John and William, took only her handbag, and walked out. John had to carry both suitcases, fuming.
“What’s got into you?”
She smiled. “You’re the man. You manage.”
On the flight home, John glowered. But the real test came later.
Margaret unpacked only her and William’s things, then slept. When she woke, she took William out for dinner.
“What about me?” John gaped.
“Find something,” she said airily.
For days, she didn’t cook, didn’t tidy his clothes. The laundry piled up.
The morning John had no ironed shirt, he exploded.
“Have you lost your mind? What am I supposed to wear?”
“You have hands,” she said, turning away.
That night, dressed in perfume and lipstick, she left him gaping again.
When she returned, he raged—about the mess, the lack of dinner.
“And what kind of husband are you?” she countered. “When was the last time you lifted a finger? I won’t be your maid anymore. Either we share the load, or we divorce.”
John froze. She’d said it so calmly, as if she’d planned it. And why not? She had a job, her own flat. Men noticed her now—he’d seen it.
A year later, they returned to the seaside. Margaret, radiant, sat at a table while John went to queue.
“Lemonade or juice, love?” he asked before leaving.
She smiled. A good choice, this resort. Close to the beach. They’d picked it together, after all.
