**Diary Entry 18th March**
While Emily was paying, James hung back by the door. By the time she started packing the shopping bags, hed already slipped outside. Stepping out of the store, she spotted him leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand.
“James, take these, please,” she said, holding out two heavy bags.
He looked at her as if shed asked him to commit a crime. “And what about you?”
Emily hesitated. What did he mean by that? Shouldnt a husband help without question? It felt wrongher struggling with the weight while he walked empty-handed.
“Theyre heavy,” she insisted.
“So?” he shot back, digging in his heels.
He knew she was growing angry, but he refused on principle. Why should he carry them? Was he a packhorse? A servant? He was a manhed decide when to help. Let her manage. Today, he wanted to put her in her place.
“James, where are you going? Take the bags!” she called, voice trembling.
The bags *were* heavyhed loaded the trolley himself. The walk home wasnt far, barely five minutes. But hauling groceries made it feel endless.
Emily trudged on, blinking back tears. Part of her hoped hed turn around, but he didnt. By the time she reached their building, she collapsed onto the bench by the entrance, exhausted. She refused to cry in public, but the anger burned. This wasnt just thoughtlessnesshed humiliated her deliberately. The man who once doted on her now took pleasure in making her small.
“Hello, love!” A familiar voice snapped her from her thoughts.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” Emily forced a smile.
The elderly woman had lived downstairs for years, a dear friend of Emilys late grandmother. With no other family nearby, Mrs. Whitmore had become her anchor.
Suddenly, Emily knew what to do. She handed over the shoppingno sense wasting the effort. The pension didnt stretch far, and the old womans eyes lit up at the treats: shortbread, tinned peaches, her favourite tea. Guilt pricked Emilyshe should do this more often.
At home, James was in the kitchen, chewing lazily.
“Wheres the shopping?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
“What shopping?” she replied coolly. “The bags you helped me carry?”
“Dont be daft.” He forced a laugh. “Youre not still cross?”
“No,” she said, calm as stone. “Just realised something.”
He stiffened. Hed expected shouting, tearsnot this quiet resolve.
“Realised what?”
“That I dont have a husband,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I thought Id married a man. Turns out I married a child.”
“Now, hang on”
“No. You want a woman who acts like a man? Fine. Go find yourself a husband instead.”
His fists clenched, face reddening, but Emily was already in the bedroom, tossing his clothes into a suitcase.
He argued until the end, baffled. “Its just shopping! Whats the bloody fuss?”
“Your suitcase,” she said, shoving it into his arms. “Hope you can carry *that* yourself.”
Some lines cant be uncrossed. Humiliation starts smallif you swallow it, it only grows. So she shut the door.
**Lesson learned:** A marriage without respect is just a shared address.
