While Emily was paying for the groceries, James stood off to the side. And when she started packing them into bags, he even stepped outside. Emily left the shop and approached James, who was smoking at the time.
“James, take the bags,” she asked, handing her husband two large shopping bags.
James looked at her as if she’d asked him to do something illegal and asked in surprise, “Why?”
Emily was taken aback, unsure how to answer. What did he mean, *why*? Men usually helped with heavy lifting—it was just common courtesy. It felt wrong for her to struggle with the weight while he strolled alongside her, empty-handed.
“They’re heavy,” she said.
“So?” James shrugged, digging in.
He could see she was getting annoyed, but he refused to carry the bags on principle. He walked ahead quickly, knowing she couldn’t keep up. *”Take the bags? What am I, some kind of pack mule? I’m a man, and I decide whether I lift a finger! Let her carry them—she won’t collapse!”* He was in one of those moods today—testing her, putting her in her place.
“James, where are you going? Take the bags!” Emily called after him, her voice near breaking.
The bags *were* heavy. James knew—he’d loaded most of the groceries into the trolley himself. The walk home was only five minutes, but with full bags, it felt much longer.
Emily trudged along, blinking back tears. She hoped this was just a joke, that he’d turn back for her. But no—he only got farther away. She thought about dropping the bags, but in a daze, she kept going. By the time she reached their building, she collapsed onto the bench outside, exhausted. She wanted to cry—from anger, from weariness—but she held it back. Crying in public? No, that was embarrassing. Yet she couldn’t just swallow this humiliation. He *knew* what he was doing. He used to be so thoughtful before they married.
“Hello, love!” A voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilkins,” Emily replied.
Mrs. Wilkins—Mary to those who knew her—lived one floor down and had been friends with Emily’s late grandmother. Emily had known her since childhood and treated her like family. After her grandmother passed, Mrs. Wilkins was the one who helped her through life’s little struggles. There was no one else—Emily’s mother lived in another city with her new husband and kids, and her father was long gone. Mrs. Wilkins was all she had left.
Without hesitation, Emily decided to give her the groceries. May as well—she’d carried them this far. Mrs. Wilkins’ pension was tight, and Emily often spoiled her with treats.
“Come on, Mrs. Wilkins, I’ll walk you up,” Emily said, picking up the heavy bags again.
Inside, she left everything with her neighbor, insisting it was all for her. When Mrs. Wilkins saw the tinned sardines, liver pâté, peaches, and other luxuries she loved but could rarely afford, she teared up. Emily felt a pang of guilt—she should do this more often. After a quick hug, Emily headed upstairs.
The moment she stepped inside, James met her in the hallway, chewing something.
“Where’re the bags?” he asked casually.
*”What bags?”* she replied, matching his tone. “The ones you helped me carry?”
“Come on, don’t be like that!” He forced a laugh. “You’re not seriously mad, are you?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just made up my mind.”
James stiffened. He’d expected shouting, tears, maybe a row—not this eerie quiet.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have a husband.” She sighed. “I thought I married a man. Turns out I married a fool.”
“I don’t follow,” he said, pretending to be wounded.
“What’s not to follow?” Emily stared him down. “I want a husband who acts like one. And you? Seems like you’d rather have a wife who acts like *your* husband.” She paused. “Maybe *you* should go find one.”
James’ face turned crimson, fists clenching—but Emily didn’t see it. She was already in the bedroom, packing his things.
He fought it until the end. He didn’t want to leave. To him, this was *nothing*—just a silly fight over shopping bags.
“We were happy! So what if you carried them? Big deal!” he ranted as she tossed his clothes into a bag.
“Hope you can carry your own luggage,” she said coldly, ignoring him.
Emily knew this was just the beginning. If she let it slide now, his *little tests* would only get worse. So she cut it off at the root—shoving him out the door.
