“Oh, Sophie, were starving! Stop lying around!” came the irritated voice of her husband, James, right by her ear.
Her head was pounding, her throat was on fire, and her nose was completely blocked. She tried to sit up, but her body felt like jelly. No surprise she was ill.
All week, the weather had been scorching, and then, just yesterday evening, out of nowheresleet and rain. Typical British spring. No chance of getting a taxi in that mess, obviously. Shed had to take the bus home from work. Thirty minutes waiting in the cold, only for it to arrive packed. She barely squeezed in. Then another long walk from the stop.
Shed asked James to pick her up.
“Soph, me and Oliver stopped by Mums. Well be late,” hed said.
As usual.
Long story short, she got home late, soaked and frozen.
The clock read 8 a.m. Saturday.
“James, could you grab the thermometer, please?” she croaked.
“What? Youre ill?” He sounded more annoyed than concerned. “What about breakfast?”
“Could you manage without me?” she asked weakly.
“Manage? How?” He scoffed. “What about Ollie?”
“Hes ten! And youre a grown man. Make some scrambled eggs? Let him help. I taught him how.”
“You taught *him* to cook?” James looked scandalised.
“Yeah. Whats the issue? Hes glued to his phone all day, never lifts a finger.”
“Are you seriously ill or just mad?” He threw his hands up. “Hes a *boy*! Men dont cookthats *your* job! Right, finewell go to Mums if you cant be bothered. Be back tomorrow.”
And just like that, he and Oliver were gone.
Sophie dragged herself up, found the thermometer, flicked the kettle on, and slumped into thought.
*How did it come to this? When did he stop caring if she was ill? When did everything become her responsibility?*
The thermometer beeped102.4°F.
She swallowed some pills and crawled back to bed.
Later, her phone buzzed. Mum.
“Sophie, love, why arent you answering? I always hear from you in the morningsthought Id lost you!”
“Just a bit poorly, Mum. Took meds and went back to sleep.”
*”A bit poorly?* Wheres James? Off at his mums again?”
“Yeah. Didnt want to catch it.”
“You actually believe that? More like didnt want to lift a finger! God forbid he washes a plate!”
“Mum”
“Dont Mum me! I *saw* this coming. Married you off, not sold you into slavery! Did you take your temperature?”
“Yeah. High earlier. Feeling a bit better now, just weak.”
“Stay put. Dads fetching you. No one should be ill alone. Wait there.” Click.
Sophie forced herself up, washed her face, packed a bag with her laptop, and was ready when Dad arrived.
“Blimey!” He clutched his chest when he saw her.
“What? Dad, whats wrong?”
“Christ, Sophie, you look like death warmed up!” He took her bag. “No, your mums rightthis is *not* on. Youre skin and bones!”
Too tired to argue, she let him bundle her into the car.
At her parents, it was warm, cosy, and safe. Mum fussed over her, and by evening, she felt a little better.
She called James to say she wasnt home.
“What dyou want me to do about it?” he yawned. “Cant bring you medshad a few pints with Dad. Its Saturday, innit? Footys on. Oh, Mum wants a word.”
The phone passed to his mother.
“Sophie, *darling*youre a *wife*! You cant just *fall apart* and leave your men to fend for themselves! A man needs a hot meal, a warm home, and *peace*! But *you*? Oh no, *youre* ill. One pill anddone!”
Sophies mum snatched the phone.
“Margaret, loveis your son *disabled*? Or just *useless*? Since when cant a man boil an egg? Oh, but waithe *can* drink beer while his wifes ill! What a *hero*!”
“Dont be dramatic! Men are *men*! They *need* looking after!” Margaret huffed. “Honestly, Sophies lucky James even *married* her. Spoilt, if you ask me!”
Sophies mum hung up, fuming.
“Sophie, *love*this is *nonsense*. Youre young! This isnt a marriageits a *joke*.”
Then James texted:
*”Soph, send us some cash? Skint till payday. Spent loads on Olliehad to cover his clubs and new trainers!”*
She blinked. *She* paid all the bills and groceries.
*”The flats* yours*, innit? Just send it!”*
*”No. Spent it on meds.”* (A lie.)
*”Seriously? Your illness is costing *us*? Ask your parents!”*
*”Ask yours.”*
*”Yeah, right! Shed ask where my wages went!”*
*”So would I.”*
*”Im a *man*! I dont *answer* to you! Send it now!”*
*”No.”*
Cue a torrent of abuse: *selfish, ungrateful, rubbish wife, rubbish mum* Sophie muted him.
Sunday morning, as her family ate breakfast, James called.
“Soph, were staying at Mums. *She* actually cares. Shouldve listened when she warned me not to marry you. Who knows what kind of mother shell be?turns out, *rubbish*.” Click.
“Well. There you have it.” Her dad set down his fork. “What now?”
“Divorce,” she whispered. “I dont want this.”
Her parents exchanged glances.
“Brilliant!” Dad stood. “Mum, Im off. Might be late.”
“Sophie, lovetake your pills, rest, and *dont* answer that phone.”
She slept till afternoon. Dad returned, tossing her a new keyring.
“Yours. Chuck the old ones.”
“What?”
“Changed the locks. Packed James and Ollies stuffdropped it at Margarets. Stay with us a while, eh? And *dont* pick up when he calls.”
Mum hummed in the kitchen, happier than shed been in years. Theyd *wanted* thisbut Sophie had to choose it herself.
The divorce was quick. No kids together, no shared assets.
Turns out, James had taken Oliver in a year agocheaper than child support. Never bothered to ask Sophie. Never warned her. Never cared that she and Ollie clashed, or that the flat was *hers*.
*”Im the man! The father!”*
And Sophie? *”Ungrateful.”*
But the court sorted *that* out.
Now James and Ollie live with Margaret, who monitors their spending and *finally* makes them lift a finger. Three blokes under one roof? *Chaos.*
And Sophie?
She bought a carno more sick days from waiting in the rain.
And at 27, after a messy divorce?
Shes learning to love herself.
*Finally.*
