**The Ungrateful**
*Diary Entry*
“Emily, we’re starving! Stop lying around!” My husband’s irritated voice echoed in my ear. My head was pounding, my throat raw, and my nose blocked. When I tried to get up, my body felt like lead. No wonder I was ill.
All week, the weather had been scorchingthen yesterday evening, sleet and rain poured down. Typical British spring. Taxis were impossible to get in that weather, so I had to take the bus home from work. Thirty minutes waiting, only to squeeze into a packed double-decker. Then a long walk from the stop, soaked to the bone.
Id asked James to pick me up on his way.
“Em, I took Oliver to Mums. Well be late,” hed texted.
*As usual.*
By the time I got home, I was freezing and drenched. It was 8 AM on a Saturday.
“James, could you grab the thermometer?” I croaked.
“What? Are you ill?” he grumbled. “What about breakfast?”
“Can you manage?” I asked.
“Manage? What about Oliver?”
“Hes ten! And youre a grown man. Make some scrambled eggs. Let him helpI taught him.”
“You taught *him* to cook?” James scoffed.
“Yes. Whats the harm? Hes glued to his phone all day.”
“Are you serious? Hes a *boy*! Men dont cookthats *your* job!” he snapped. “Fine. Well go to Mums since youre useless. Back tomorrow.”
They left in a hurry. I dragged myself up, found the thermometer, boiled the kettle, and sat thinking. *When did this happen? When did he stop caring if I was ill? When did I become the maid?*
The thermometer beeped102.4°F. I took medicine and crawled back to bed.
Later, Mum rang.
“Emily, why havent you called? I was worried!”
“Just a bit poorly,” I rasped.
“A bit? Wheres James? At his mothers again?”
“Gone. Didnt want to catch it.”
“You believe that? More like didnt want to lift a finger!” she huffed.
I didnt argue. She wasnt wrong.
“Stay put. Dads fetching you. No one should be ill alone.”
Dad arrived, gasped when he saw me. “Bloody hell, you look like death!”
“Charming,” I muttered.
He helped me to the car. “Skin and bones. Your mothers rightyou look like youve been worked to the bone.”
At their house, it was warm, cosy, and full of love. By evening, I felt better.
I called James to say I wasnt home.
“What dyou want? I cant bring medicine. Had a pint with Dad. Its Saturdayfootballs on. Oh, Mum wants a word.”
His mother snatched the phone. “Emily, a woman must *never* neglect her men! A man needs food, warmth, and peace! And you? Ill? Take a pill and carry on!”
Mum overheard and yanked the phone back. “Listen here, Margaret. Is your son *disabled*? Can he not lift a finger? My daughters ill, and yours is *glad* of it!”
James texted later: “Send money. Spent my wages on Olivers clubs and clothes.”
*Id paid all the bills and groceries.*
“Flats yours, isnt it? Hurry upIm at the shop.”
“No. Spent it on medicine.”
“Ask your parents, then.”
“Ask your mum.”
“Shell ask where my wages went!”
“*Id* like to know too.”
“None of your business! Send it now!”
“No.”
He called me greedy, ungrateful, a terrible wife and stepmum. His mother piled on. I muted my phone.
Sunday morning, he rang. “Were staying at Mums. She *actually* cares. Shouldve listened when she said youd be a rubbish mother.”
“Good riddance!” Dad said, watching me.
“I dont want this.”
“Too late. I changed your locks. Packed their things. Theyre at Margarets.”
Mum hummed, happier than Id seen her in years.
The divorce was quickno shared kids, no assets. A year after the wedding, James had moved Oliver in to avoid child support. Never asked me. Never cared that Oliver made my life hell or that the flat was *mine*.
Now? James and Oliver live with Margaret, who watches every penny. Three men under one roofgood luck to her.
Me? I bought a car. No more buses in the rain.
At 27, fresh from divorce? Whats next?
Simple. Learning to love myself.
**Lesson:** A man who wont lift a spoon wont lift a finger when you need him. Know your worth.
