You Don’t Deserve It “I thought I’d never trust anyone again after my divorce,” Andrew murmured, absentmindedly turning an empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice broke, trembling with such sincerity that Kate instinctively leaned closer. “You know, when someone betrays you, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left me with wounds that may never heal. I really thought I’d never make it through…” Andrew’s sighs and stories spilled out for over an hour—about the ex-wife who never valued him, about pain that wouldn’t let go, about the terror of starting over. Each word settled in Kate’s heart like a warm pebble. She pictured herself as the woman who would help piece him together, proving real love was still possible. Together, she’d nurse his scars until he understood happiness could finally be his—with her. Max didn’t come up until their second date, just as dessert gave way to coffee. “I’ve got a son, by the way. He’s seven. Lives with his mum, but the courts say I get him on weekends,” Andrew explained. “That’s lovely!” Kate beamed. “Children are such a blessing.” Already, she was imagining Saturday breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cosy evenings in with cartoons. A boy his age needed a woman’s touch, motherly warmth. She’d be his second mum—not a replacement, but a loving presence nonetheless. “You’re sure you’re okay with that?” Andrew gave her a strange little smile, which she read as uncertainty. “Plenty of women bolt as soon as they hear about the kid.” “I’m not plenty of women,” she replied with quiet pride. The first weekend with Max turned out to be a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, Andrew had tipped her off. She patiently talked him through his maths homework. Washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should put your feet up,” she quietly said, catching Andrew sprawled on the sofa with the TV remote. “I’ve got it covered.” He nodded—a grateful nod, she thought then. Later, she’d realise it was more the nod of an owner, calmly accepting what was his due. Months blurred into years. Kate worked long shifts as a logistics manager—leaving at eight, back by seven. The pay was good, at least for London. Enough for two, just about. But there were three of them. “There’s another hold-up on the building site,” Andrew would announce, as if relaying a natural disaster. “The client’s backed out. But a big contract’s just around the corner, promise you.” That “big contract” had been “just around the corner” for over a year and a half. Sometimes closer, sometimes receding—but never arriving. The bills, however, never failed to show up. Rent. Electric. Broadband. Groceries. Support for Max’s mum. New trainers for Max. School fees. Kate paid them all in silence. She skimped on lunch, brought leftovers in Tupperware, skipped on taxis in the rain. No money for nails for a year—she filed them herself, recalling a time she could have treated herself at the salon. In three years, Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered every bouquet—sad petrol-station roses from the kiosk beside Sainsbury’s, half-wilted and blunt-thorned, always on sale. The first bunch was an apology after Andrew called her “hysterical” in front of Max. The second after a row over her friend turning up without warning. The third he brought home when he missed her birthday—too busy at the pub, having simply forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t need expensive gifts,” she’d try, speaking softly, choosing her words. “But sometimes—I’d just like to know you think of me. Even a card…” He’d sneer. “So it’s all about the money, eh? Presents? What about love—don’t you care what I’ve been through?” “I didn’t mean—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew flung those words at her the way one might flick mud from a shoe. “After everything I’ve done for you, all you do is complain.” Kate fell silent. She always did. Easier that way. Easier to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Meanwhile, Andrew found money easily for drinks with his mates: pints on Thursdays, football at the pub, late-night kebabs. He’d stumble home reeking of lager and tobacco, dropping onto the bed as if Kate weren’t even there beside him. She assured herself it was normal. Love meant sacrifice. Patience. He’d change. Of course he would. She just needed to give more, love him harder—he deserved that, after everything he’d suffered. Discussions about a wedding became a minefield. “Why do we need a bit of paper?” Andrew would shrug, brushing her off like a pesky fly. “After what happened with my ex? Give me time.” “Three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pressuring me. You always pressure me!” He’d storm out. End of conversation. Kate longed for a child—her own. She was twenty-eight; the clock’s tick grew louder every month. But Andrew, already a father, had no interest in another child. One Saturday, she asked for a single day. “The girls want to get together. I’ll be home by the evening.” Andrew stared at her as if she’d announced a solo trip around the world. “And Max?” “He’s your son. You can spend a day with him.” “You’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I wanted a bit of peace?” Kate blinked. In three years, she’d never once left them alone. Not one free day. She’d cooked, cleaned, helped with homework—plus held down her own job. “I just want to see my friends—for a few hours… And he is your son, Andrew. Can’t you spend a day with him?” “You’re supposed to love my kid like you love me!” Andrew exploded. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got the nerve to get stroppy?” His flat. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the groceries. Three years supporting a man who shouted at her for wanting one day with friends. She looked at Andrew—his twisted face, bulging vein, clenched fists—and really saw him, maybe for the first time. Not a broken soul. Not a victim crying out for rescue. An adult man, well-practised at using other people’s kindness. To him, Kate wasn’t a partner or a future wife. She was free childcare and an ATM, nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off, Kate packed her overnight bag. Steady hands. No shaking. No doubts. Passport. Phone. Charger. A few T-shirts and jeans. She could buy the rest later—none of it mattered. She didn’t leave a note. What could she possibly explain to someone who’d never seen her as more than convenient? The door closed behind her with a quiet click—no drama required. The calls started an hour later. Once. Twice. A torrent—her phone vibrating wild with outrage. “Where are you?! What’s going on?! You’re just not here? What gives you the right? Where’s my dinner? Am I meant to starve? This is bang out of order!” Kate listened—his voice, angry and indignant, ringing out as if he was the one wronged. Even now, after she’d left, Andrew only thought of himself. His lost comfort, his dinner. No “sorry.” No “are you okay?” Just “how dare you?” Kate blocked his number. His WhatsApp. His social media—everywhere he might reach, she bricked up walls. Three years. Three years living with a man who never loved her. Who bled her dry. Who tricked her into believing love was nothing but self-sacrifice. But that’s not love. Not the real thing. Love doesn’t mean humiliation. It doesn’t reduce a person to a live-in maid. Kate walked the London streets at dusk, breathing easier than she had in years. She promised herself: Never again would she mistake self-erasure for love. Never again would she waste her heart on someone who lived for pity. She’d always choose herself. From this moment on. — Title: You Don’t Deserve It

Author Walton MerrittReading 9 minViews 4

“I thought after the divorce Id never be able to trust anyone again,” James murmured as he twirled his empty espresso cup between his fingers. There was a tremor in his voice, so genuine that Emily found herself leaning in, her heart unintentionally softening. “You know, when someone betrays you, its like losing a piece of yourself. She completely broke me. For a while, I honestly thought Id never pick myself up.”

James sighed deeply, taking his time to recount how his ex-wife never truly appreciated him, how pain seemed to have latched onto him and wouldnt let go, how starting over felt impossible. Every word landed on Emilys heart like a small, warm pebble. She could already imagine herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love, who would heal his wounds, who would prove real happiness was possiblewith her.

He only mentioned Oliver on their second date, between pudding and coffee.

“I have a son, by the way. Hes seven. He lives with his mum, but spends every weekend at mine. Thats what the court decided.”
“Thats brilliant! Emily beamed. Children are such a blessing.”

In her mind, shed already created snapshots: the three of them having Saturday breakfasts, trips to the park, quiet evenings in front of the telly. A little boy needed a womans warmth, a touch of motherly care. She wouldnt try to replace Olivers real mother, of course, but she could be his friend, someone he could rely on.

“Youre sure youre alright with that?” James watched her closely, an odd little smile on his lips which Emily mistook for uncertainty. “A lot of women leg it when they find out Ive got a kid.”
“Im not a lot of women,” she answered, chin up, pride in her voice.

Their very first weekend with Oliver was like a celebration. Emily made blueberry pancakeshis favourite, James had said. She sat patiently for hours, calmly explaining sums from his maths book. She washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was tucked up in bed by nine.

“You need to have a rest,” she said, seeing James sprawled out on the sofa with the remote. “Ill handle things here.”

James noddedshe thought then it was a grateful nod. But looking back, she saw it for what it was: the nod of a man who felt entitled to such care.

The months blurred into years. Emily worked as a manager in a logistics company, out of the house by eight, back by seven. Her salary was decentby Londons standards. It was certainly enough for two. But there were three of them.

“Another holdup at the building site,” James would say, as if announcing a flood. “The clients backed out. But theres a big contract coming soon, I promise you.” That big contract had hovered just out of reach for a year and a half. Bills, however, came right on schedule. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child support for Sarah. New trainers for Oliver. School fees.

Emily quietly paid for everything. She cut back her own lunches, bringing bits of leftover pasta in little tubs. No more taxis in the rain. She hadnt seen the inside of a nail salon in over a yearshe filed her own nails now, not wanting to think about the days she used to afford those tiny luxuries.

Over three years, James gifted her flowers precisely three times. Emily remembered each: wilted supermarket roses from the all-night shop at the end of the High Street, thorns already clipped off, clearly on offer.

The first bouquet followed him calling her hysterical in front of Oliver. The second appeared after a row when her mate dropped by unexpectedly. The thirdwhen hed forgotten her birthday altogether, off enjoying himself with friends.

“James, I dont want expensive gifts,” shed say softly, picking her words. “But sometimes its just nice to know youre thinking of me. Even just a card”

His face would twist up in an instant.

“Its always about money, isnt it? Thats what you care aboutgifts. Never about love. Never about what Ive been through.”
“Thats not what I mean”
“You dont deserve it.” James spat the words at her like mud. “After everything I do for you, youre still not satisfied.”

Emily went silent. Silence was easier. Easier to live, easier to breathe, easier to pretend that things really were alright.

Yet James always managed to find money for his mates. Pubs and live football, café meet-ups every Thursday. Hed come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and smoke, not caring that Emily was still awake.

She told herself it was normal. Love was sacrifice. Love was patience. Hell change. Of course he will. She simply had to give more, love harderhed been through such a terrible time

Their conversations about marriage became like walking through a minefield.

“But were happy, arent we? Why do we need a piece of paper?” James would bat away the subject as though it were nothing. “After all I went through with Sarah, I just need time.”
“Its been three years, James. Three years is a long while.”
“Youre putting pressure on me. You always do!” His irritation would boil over, driving him to leave the room. Discussion over.

Emily longed for children of her own, desperately. She was twenty-eight and increasingly aware of her ticking biological clock. But James had no interest in being a father againhe already had Oliver, and that was more than enough, he said.

On a quiet Saturday, Emily asked for just one thing. One day.

“The girls have invited me over. We havent caught up in ages. Ill be back this evening.”

James looked at her as if shed suggested running off to Australia.

“What about Oliver?”
“Hes your son. Spend the day with him.”
“So youre just leaving us? On a Saturday? When I was looking forward to a bit of rest?”

Emily blinked, once, twice. In three years shed never left them on their own. Never asked for a single day to herself. She cooked, cleaned, helped Oliver with homework, did the washing and ironingall on top of a full-time job.

“I just want to see my friends. A few hours and he is your child, James. Can you not manage him for just one day?”
“Youre supposed to love my child like you love me!” James suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now youre starting to get ideas?!”

His flat. His food. Emily had paid the rent. Emily did the weekly shop with her own paycheck. Shed supported this man for three years, only to be yelled at for wanting a day with her friends.

She looked at Jameshis twisted expression, the pulsing vein at his temple, his clenched fistsand she saw him for what he truly was. Not some damaged soul in need of rescuing, but a grown man, expertly playing on her kindness. She was never his beloved, never his future wifejust a free ride and unpaid help.

Once James had left to drop Oliver at Sarahs, Emily packed her overnight bag. Her movements were calm, sureno shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of t-shirts. Jeans. The rest didnt matter. Nothing else was important.

She didnt bother with a note. Why explain to someone who never valued her?

She closed the door behind her without drama, without tears.

The calls began an hour later. Once, twice, and then a ceaseless ringing that made her phone vibrate.

“Emily, where are you?! Whats going on?! I come home and youre not here! What do you think youre doing?! Wheres my dinner? Am I supposed to starve? This is disgraceful!”

She listened to his voiceangry, indignant, full of self-righteous outrageand it amazed her. Even now, as shed finally left, James only thought of himself. Of his discomfort. Of who would cook his tea now.

No “sorry.” No “are you alright?” Only “how dare you.”

Emily blocked his number. Then his messaging apps. Social mediaeverywhere he might reach her, she built a wall.

Three years. Three years with a man who never loved her, who used up her kindness, who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love meant.

But that isnt love. Love never humiliates. Love doesnt turn a living, vibrant person into a maid and a piggy bank.

Emily walked through the quiet streets of south London, breathing freely for the first time in years. She made herself a promise: never again would she confuse love with self-denial. Never again would she rescue those who only wanted to be pitied.

She would always choose herself. And that, she realised as she strode on, was the most important lesson of all.

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter Natalie Michaels couldn’t stop ringing her son, who was off at sea again. Still, there was no signal. “Oh, what a mess you’ve made, son!” she sighed anxiously, dialing his number once more. It was all in vain—no signal until he reached the next port, and that might not be soon. And now, of all times… Natalie Michaels hadn’t slept for two nights—this was what her son had done! * * * This story really began years before, back when Michael hadn’t even considered working long voyages. He was a grown man, but love just didn’t work out—nothing ever seemed right with the women he met! Natalie watched with an aching heart as her son’s relationships, with perfectly lovely and respectable girls (in her opinion), fell apart one after another. “You’re impossible!” she’d tell him, exasperated. “Nothing is ever good enough! What woman’s ever going to be able to meet all your standards?” “I don’t get your complaints, Mum. You’re just desperate for a daughter-in-law, and you don’t even care what kind of person she might be!” “That’s not true!” Natalie insisted. “I care very much that she loves you—and that she’s decent!” Her son’s meaningful silences only frustrated her more. How did the baby boy she’d raised, the one who once cried on her knees, suddenly seem to know so much more about life than she did? Who was the real grown-up here? “What was wrong with Natalie, then?” Natalie would demand, switching to another girlfriend’s name if her son stonewalled her. And so it went with Katya, Jenny, and Darina—each new girl, each new disappointment. “You’re impossible to please! You’re always chasing after someone new! Why can’t you just settle down, start a family—give me grandchildren, already?” Eventually, Michael changed professions entirely, joining a friend’s ship crew. Natalie tried in vain to talk him out of it. “Why, Mum? It’s a great opportunity! Do you know how much lads make at sea? I’ll look after us both.” “What good is the money if you’re never around and I don’t see you? I’d rather have a family than your paycheques!” “Families need providing for, too! Once I have kids, I won’t go out to sea anymore—I’ll have to raise them. So now’s the right time to work hard while I can. Everything else will follow!” Michael truly did earn a lot. After the first trip, he renovated the flat. After the second, he opened a savings account in her name. “This is so you never want for anything, Mum.” “I live just fine already! What I don’t have, are grandkids—and time’s passing by. I’m not getting younger, you know!” “Oh, stop it! You’re years off retirement! Don’t be daft!” her son teased. Natalie rarely touched his money, relying on her own modest pharmacy salary for her simple expenses. “Let it pile up on the card. When Michael finally looks, he’ll see how thrifty his mother is!” she thought. They lived this way for years. Back home between voyages, Michael met up with his mates, stayed out late, spent time with women he stopped introducing to his mother. When Natalie complained, he rebuffed her: “It’s so you won’t guilt me later about not marrying them. I just don’t plan on marrying girls like that, Mum!” That stung. Especially when he called her naïve. “You always think too well of people, Mum. You never really got to know any of those so-called fiancées. They always tried to impress you, but they weren’t as they seemed.” His words gnawed at Natalie, making her feel foolish for trusting strangers. But then, one night, she caught sight of him with a new girl and was filled yet again with the fierce urge to see her son settled. She brazenly approached them—Michael, a grown man, blushed scarlet. But a mother is a mother—he had to introduce them. Natalie took to Milly at once. Tall, slim, curly-haired, with an intelligent face and good manners. “Maybe he just needed time,” Natalie thought, elated. “Maybe there was a reason he never settled before. If he hadn’t waited, he wouldn’t have met such a lovely girl!” Michael and Milly saw each other all holiday long, and Natalie hosted the girl several times. She found her bright, lively, and delightful. But as Michael prepared for yet another voyage, Milly disappeared. “We’re not seeing each other anymore, Mum. Please, just leave it alone,” her son said. He left. Natalie fretted, but there was no one to ask about what might have happened. * * * A year went by. Michael was home several times, but always short when asked about Milly. “Good grief, what was wrong with her, then? What could possibly have gone wrong?” Natalie finally burst. “Mum, that’s between me and her. If I broke things off, I had my reasons. Stop prying into my life!” She nearly cried. “But I worry about you, Michael!” “Don’t!” he barked. “And don’t contact Milly, either. And stop nagging me!” Off he sailed again, leaving Natalie to her empty routine. Then, during a shift at the pharmacy, Milly walked in—shopping for baby formula, with a little girl in a buggy. “Oh, Milly, I’m thrilled to see you! Michael told me nothing, just upped and left for sea, and swore me off finding out about you!” Milly looked sad. “Let’s leave it at that, then.” Natalie’s heart raced. “Tell me, dear, did something happen between you? I know Michael—he can be difficult sometimes. Did he hurt you?” “It doesn’t matter,” Milly replied. “I’m not angry at him. We should be going, though—still need groceries.” “When you can, pop in—see me at work! I’m on different shifts.” Milly did come by, and bit by bit, Natalie drew out the story. Milly was pregnant by Michael, but he’d said a child didn’t fit into his life at sea and he wasn’t up for anything long-term. Then he vanished. “Off to sea again, I suppose,” Milly shrugged. “We’ll manage on our own.” Natalie practically dropped to her knees, gazing at the little girl. “So—this is my granddaughter?” “It would seem so,” Milly replied softly. “Her name’s Annie.” “Annie…” * Natalie was beside herself. She coaxed out of Milly that she was struggling—renting alone with a baby and no steady income, thinking of moving back to her own parents out of town. The thought of Annie leaving—her only granddaughter!—nearly broke Natalie’s heart. “You and Annie should come stay with me! I’ll help with everything, you’ll get a regular job, we have more than enough! Michael sends so much money, I can’t spend it all anyway. Annie deserves the best!” “What would Michael say?” “Who cares? If he can walk away from his own child and say nothing, it falls to me to put things right! When he comes home, he’s getting a piece of my mind, I can promise you!” So they moved in together. Natalie doted on Annie, rearranged shifts to spend more time with her. Milly found a job, working late, grateful to leave Annie in safe hands. At home, Natalie looked after her as if she were her own. Michael’s leave approached. Natalie imagined greeting him—grandchild in arms—demanding apologies to Milly. Milly grew nervous, dreading being thrown out once Michael returned. “He’ll never let us stay, I knew I shouldn’t have moved in!” Milly fretted. “He’ll say it’s all about the money. I’d rather go home to my parents than impose on your kindness.” “Nonsense! I own this flat—I decide who lives here! Let him try stopping me!” Milly protested, but Natalie insisted: “This is what I’m thinking—we should immediately transfer this flat to Annie. That way there’ll be no questions in future; it’ll be hers, even if Michael never marries. Especially since he’s not even listed on Annie’s birth certificate,” Natalie said gently, and Milly nodded, embarrassed. They went to the solicitor to arrange this, but were told Michael had to remove his name from the ownership first. Natalie was annoyed, but with Michael due back in days, she tried to be patient. Milly grew increasingly absent, working late, gathering her things into a hidden suitcase. Natalie confronted her. “You’re not moving out, are you?” “I’m sorry, Natalie—I have to go! Once Michael’s back, it’s better if we’re not in the way…” “You’re not going anywhere, not with my granddaughter!” Natalie replied firmly. “If you need anything, you’ve got the card, and the pin’s written down. Buy whatever Annie needs! And spend more time with her—you’re not a stranger here.” Milly was silent. Two days until Michael’s return. * On the morning of his arrival, Natalie went to Milly’s room to watch Annie sleep, but Milly was gone. Only Annie lay peacefully in her cot. “Where could she be? She’s never gone to work this early before…” Natalie went about preparing her son’s favourite foods. She pictured the reunion—her son apologising, Milly back any minute. Then the doorbell rang. Michael walked in, stunned to see his mother holding a toddler. “Hi, Mum. Who’s this? What on earth happened while I was gone?” “You should know better than anyone, shouldn’t you!” Natalie fixed him with a hard look. “Let me introduce your daughter, Annie! Now, what do you have to say for yourself?” “What? I don’t have any children! Mum, have you lost your mind? What’s all this about Milly?” Infuriated, Natalie filled him in on everything, scolding him fiercely. Michael clutched at his head. “Oh, Mum, you’re so— You never learn!” “Don’t you call me a fool again! I—” “She’s not my child, Mum! Milly lied to you, and you— You’re too trusting! That’s all she wanted—your money. What did she take?” “Nothing! I never—” “Check your accounts, Mum—I bet Milly’s already halfway across the country with them!” “She’s out at work!” Natalie protested. They argued until Michael finally agreed to wait and confront Milly together. Annie played unaware as Natalie continued defending Milly’s character. “When she comes back, you’ll see—she’s wonderful!” “So wonderful she’s conned you already!” Michael replied. “We’ll settle this with a DNA test!” Natalie insisted. Night came, then morning. Milly never returned. Neither the pharmacy nor any of the workplaces she’d mentioned had heard of her. Her things were gone—from the wardrobe, from the flat, but Annie’s remained. “My God. She’s just left her own daughter behind?” Natalie wept. “She seemed so trustworthy! Why didn’t you warn me what she was like?” “I didn’t want to worry you, Mum—you always see the good in people. I heard stories about her, but I didn’t want to break your heart.” They went to the police—no trace of Milly was ever found. She had disappeared, save for the bank card, later recovered at a train station. With Milly gone, Annie was allowed to stay with Natalie. The DNA test confirmed Michael wasn’t Annie’s father, but by then Natalie had fallen in love with the little girl and couldn’t part with her. She and Michael decided to raise Annie as their own. Milly was officially stripped of parental rights, and after endless forms, Natalie was granted guardianship of Annie—returning to work, finding a nursery, and providing a loving home. A year later, Michael returned from a voyage with news. “Mum, meet my wife—Sophie. We’re moving in together.” A nervous glance toward Annie’s room, but Sophie only smiled. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Michaels. Michael told me everything, and I admire you so much! I’d be honoured to help raise Annie with you.” Michael added, “I’m finishing up at sea, and Sophie and I will adopt Annie soon. It’ll finally be official.” Overjoyed, Natalie set the table, wiping a happy tear from her cheek. “My prayers have been answered! Come in, everyone—let’s celebrate our family!”

You Don’t Deserve It “I thought I’d never trust anyone again after my divorce,” Andrew turned an empty espresso cup in his hands, his voice cracking so convincingly that Kate couldn’t help but lean in. “You know, when someone betrays you, it’s like losing a piece of yourself. She left me scarred for life. I didn’t think I’d recover…” Andrew sighed heavily as he talked at length—about his ex-wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t go away, and his fear of starting over. Each word landed softly on Kate’s heart, and she pictured herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. Together, she would heal his wounds. He’d see that real happiness was only possible with her. Andrew mentioned Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee… “I’ve got a son, by the way. Seven years old. He’s with his mum, but spends every weekend with me. That’s how the court arranged things.” “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She could already see it: Saturday breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She’d be a second mum—not a replacement, of course, but someone close, someone he could count on… “Are you sure you’re okay with that?” Andrew looked at her with a strange half-smile she mistook for distrust. “Most women run away when they find out about the kid.” “I’m not most women,” she replied, proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently went through his maths book, explained the sums in plain English, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was tucked up by nine. “You need a break,” she told Andrew once, smoothing his hair as he lounged on the couch, remote in hand. “I can handle this.” He nodded gratefully—or so she thought. Now she realized it was the nod of a man accepting what he felt was owed to him. Months blended into years. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out of the house by eight, back by seven. Decent salary—by London standards, at least. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “Another delay on the site,” Andrew would sigh, as if lighting struck every time. “The client’s let us down. But there’s a big contract coming soon, I promise.” The “big contract” had been on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes closer, sometimes further away, never materializing. But bills were reliable. Rent, utilities, groceries, maintenance, school supplies, new trainers, child support for Andrew’s ex. Kate paid everything quietly. She cut costs, packed leftovers for work, walked in the rain rather than pay for a cab. It had been a year since she’d afforded a manicure—she filed her nails herself now, trying not to remember when a salon wasn’t a luxury. In three years, Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each awkward bunch—cheap roses from the Tesco outside their block, wilted and with snapped stems, half-price specials. The first time: as apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second: after a row about her friend dropping in unannounced. The third: for missing her birthday because he stayed too long with mates—he’d simply forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t need expensive gifts,” she tried to choose her words gently. “But sometimes, I’d like to know you think of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted. “All you ever care about is money, isn’t it? Presents? What about love? What I’ve been through?” “That’s not—” “You don’t deserve it.” He flung the words at her like mud. “After everything I do for you, you’ve the nerve to complain.” Kate went quiet. She always did—it was simpler. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Meanwhile, Andrew always found money for pub nights with mates. Watching the game, cafés on Thursdays. He’d roll home, half-drunk, stinking of beer and sweat, flopping onto the bed without even noticing Kate was awake. She convinced herself this was normal. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change. He had to. She’d just give more, love harder—after all, he’d suffered so much… Talk of marriage was a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why bother with a certificate?” Andrew swatted the subject away like a fly. “After what I went through with Melissa, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pushing me. You’re always pushing!” He’d storm out, the conversation going nowhere. Kate wanted children. Her own. She was twenty-eight and her biological clock was getting louder every month. But Andrew had no plans to become a dad again—one son was enough, in his view. That Saturday, she asked for just one day—a single day. “The girls have invited me over. It’s been ages. I’ll be back in the evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d announced plans to move continents. “And what about Max?” “You’re his dad. Spend the day together.” “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was counting on time to relax?” Kate blinked. For three years, she’d never left them alone. Not once asked for a free day. She cooked, cleaned, tutored, washed, ironed—all on top of a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. A few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can manage one day?” “You’re supposed to love my son like you love me!” he suddenly yelled. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got an attitude?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid for both, with her own salary. Three years she’d supported a man who shouted because she dared to ask for a day off. She looked at Andrew—at his distorted face, the vein throbbing at his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him, truly, for the first time. Not a wounded soul. Not a casualty of circumstance. But an adult who’d mastered the art of exploiting someone else’s kindness. Kate wasn’t his beloved, nor his future wife. She was a financial donor and free housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max at Melissa’s, Kate reached for her overnight bag. Her hands moved steadily—no trembling, no hesitation. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. She could buy the rest later. None of it mattered. She didn’t bother with a note. What would be the point—explaining herself to someone who never truly saw her? The door shut quietly behind her, no fuss, no drama… The calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a relentless barrage—her phone buzzing with Andrew’s fury. “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! I get home and you’re gone! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?! Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? Unbelievable—” She listened to his voice—angry, entitled, self-righteous—and almost laughed. Even now, Andrew only thought of inconveniences to himself. Who’d cook his dinner. Not one “sorry.” Not even, “Are you alright?” Only: “How dare you?” Kate blocked his number, his messaging app, his social media—anywhere he could reach her, she put up a wall. Three years. Three years with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness up. Who’d convinced her sacrifice equalled love. But that wasn’t love. Love doesn’t mean humiliation. Love doesn’t turn a human being into a servant. Strolling through London in the evening, Kate breathed easier than she had in years. She made a promise—never again to confuse love with self-abandonment. Never again to save those who trade on sympathy. To always choose herself. Only herself.