While Katie was paying for the groceries, James stood off to the side. When she started packing them into bags, he even stepped outside. Katie left the shop and approached James, who was smoking.
“James, take the bags,” she asked, holding out two large shopping bags to her husband.
James gave her a look as if she’d asked him to do something illegal and replied, baffled, “Why should I?”
Katie froze, unsure how to respond. What did he mean, *why should I?* Since when was that even a question? Men always helped with heavy lifting—it was just common decency. It felt wrong, watching a woman struggle with bags while her husband strolled beside her, carefree.
“James, they’re heavy,” Katie said.
“So?” he shot back defiantly.
He could see her irritation rising, but out of sheer stubbornness, he refused to carry them. He strode ahead, knowing she couldn’t keep up. *”Take the bags”? Who does she think I am—some errand boy? Her lackey? I’m a man, and I decide what I carry! She can manage—it won’t kill her!* That was his mood today—putting his wife in her place.
“James, where are you going? Take the bags!” Katie called after him, her voice trembling.
The bags *were* heavy—James knew, since he’d been the one piling items into the trolley. The flat was only five minutes away, but weighed down like this, the walk felt endless.
Katie trudged home, fighting back tears. She hoped this was some cruel joke, that he’d turn back. But no—his figure grew smaller the further he walked. She almost dropped the bags but, numb, kept going. At the entrance, she collapsed onto a bench, exhausted. Anger and humiliation burned in her chest, but she clenched her jaw—crying in public? No, too embarrassing. Yet swallowing this was impossible—he hadn’t just hurt her; he’d *chosen* to.
“Hello there, love!” The neighbour’s voice snapped her from her thoughts.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilkins,” Katie answered.
Mrs. Wilkins—Marjorie to friends—had lived downstairs for decades, close with Katie’s nan before she passed. Katie had known her since childhood, leaning on her more after her grandmother’s death. With her mum remarried and settled up north with new children, and her father long out of the picture, Mrs. Wilkins was all she had left.
Right then, Katie decided to give her the shopping. No point hauling it upstairs now. Marjorie’s pension was modest, and Katie often spoiled her with little treats.
“Come on, let’s get you home,” Katie said, forcing herself to lift the bags again.
Upstairs, she left everything with Marjorie. Tinned pilchards, cod liver, peaches in syrup—luxuries the older woman adored but rarely bought herself. Overwhelmed, Mrs. Wilkins hugged her tightly, leaving Katie guilt-tinged for not doing this more often.
Back in her own flat, James met her in the hallway, mid-bite of a sandwich.
“Where’s the shopping?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
“What shopping?” she echoed, cool. “The bags *you* helped me carry?”
“Oh, don’t start!” He forced a laugh. “You’re not seriously upset, are you?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I’ve just drawn my conclusions.”
James stiffened. He’d expected screaming, tears—not this icy calm.
“And what conclusions are those?”
“I don’t have a husband,” she said. Then, sighing, “I thought I married a man. Turns out, I married a fool.”
“Excuse me?” He feigned outrage.
“What’s confusing?” Katie stared him down. “I want a man for a husband. And you—well, you clearly want a man for a wife too.” A pause. “Guess that means *you* need a husband.”
James’s face darkened. Fists clenched. But Katie didn’t see—she was already in the bedroom, yanking his suitcase from the wardrobe.
He resisted until the end, bewildered. How could she throw everything away over *this*?
“We were fine! So what if you carried the bags? Big deal!” he ranted as she tossed his clothes inside.
“At least you can carry *your own* bag,” she cut in, cold.
Katie knew—this was just the start. If she let it slide now, the disrespect would only grow. So she ended it. Door locked. Suitcase in the hall.
Done.
