You Don’t Deserve It “I thought after my divorce I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew twisted an empty espresso cup in his hands, his voice breaking so believably that Kate instinctively leaned forward. “You know, when someone betrays you, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left me with scars I’ll never heal from. I honestly didn’t think I’d survive…” Andrew, sighing heavily, talked for quite a while. About his ex-wife who never valued him. About pain that never went away. About his fear of starting over. Every word landed on Kate’s heart like a warm pebble, and she was already picturing herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. That together, they’d heal his wounds. That one day, he’d realize true happiness was only possible with her. Andrew only mentioned Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee… “I’ve got a son, actually—he’s seven. Lives with his mum, but he spends every weekend with me. Court order.” “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” Already, in her mind, she saw Saturday breakfasts for three, Sunday mornings in the park, cosy evenings in front of the telly. That little boy needed a woman’s warmth, a mother’s care. She’d become his second mum—not a replacement, of course, but a close, loving presence… “You’re really okay with it?” Andrew gave her an odd half-smile, which at the time Kate mistook for caution. “A lot of women bolt when they hear about a kid.” “I’m not like most women,” she said, proud. …Their first weekend with Max felt like a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently worked through his maths homework, explained things simply. She washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should put your feet up,” she told Andrew once, catching him sprawled with the TV remote. “I can handle this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, she thought. Looking back, she realised it was the approving nod of someone getting exactly what they expected. …The months blurred into years. Kate worked as a manager at a logistics company, out the door by eight, back by seven. The London salary was decent. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “Another delay on site,” Andrew would announce as if bearing news of a national disaster. “Client’s backed out. But there’s a big contract coming—I promise.” For a year and a half, the big contract hovered on the horizon, always just out of reach. But the bills—rent, gas, council tax, groceries, child support for Max’s mum, new trainers for Max, school trips—those came without fail. Kate paid everything quietly. She cut back on lunches, packed leftovers, refused taxis in the rain. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—she filed her own nails, trying not to dwell on the things she used to afford. In three years, Andrew brought her flowers just three times. Kate remembered each sad little bouquet—cheap roses from the 24-hour stand outside the Tube, their heads already drooping, thorns snapped. Probably a special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her a drama queen in front of Max. The second followed a row, because her friend dropped round for tea unannounced. The third, a token after missing her birthday altogether—he’d lost track of time at the pub with his mates. Or just forgotten, plainly. “Andrew, I don’t care about expensive gifts,” she chose her words carefully, softly. “It’d just be nice to know I cross your mind sometimes. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “So you only care about money, is that it? Fancy things? Have you even thought about what I’ve been through? About love?” “That’s not what I—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After everything I do for you, all you do is moan.” Kate fell silent. She always did. Life was easier that way. Easier to breathe, easier to pretend nothing was wrong. Oddly enough, Andrew always found cash for pints with the lads. Bars, match nights, a café every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and smoke, flopping on the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She’d convince herself: this is normal. Love means sacrifice. Love is patience. He’d change. Surely he’d change. She’d give him more attention, more kindness, more love—he’d been through so much… …Talk of marriage turned into walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are, why spoil it with a bit of paper?” Andrew dismissed the subject as if swatting a bluebottle. “After what happened with Jess, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pressuring me. You always do!” He’d storm off into another room, conversation dead. Kate longed for children of her own—her biological clock was ticking louder every month. But Andrew refused—he already had a son, and in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday, all she’d asked for was a single day. Just one. “The girls invited me round. I haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll be home tonight.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d announced she was moving to Australia. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. Surely you can manage a day with your own son.” “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to relax?” Kate blinked, then blinked again. Not once, in three years, had she left them alone. Never asked for a single day off. She cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, did the laundry, all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Can’t you spend one day with him, without me?” “You’re supposed to love my son as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live under my roof, eat my food, and now you’re getting stroppy?!” His roof. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food out of her wages. She’d bankrolled a man who yelled at her for wanting a day with friends. For the first time, Kate saw Andrew plainly—not a broken soul in need of rescue, but a grown man who’d mastered the art of exploiting kindness. She was never his beloved, nor his future wife. She was a financial sponsor, a housemaid. Nothing more. When Andrew took Max back to his mum, Kate quietly packed her bag. Her hands never wavered—no trembling, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of shirts. Jeans. She could buy the rest later. None of it mattered. She didn’t bother with a note. What would be the point? The door closed quietly behind her, without drama… The calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, continuous ringtone making her phone buzz. “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re gone! How dare you?! Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to starve here? What bloody cheek!” She listened to his voice—angry, entitled, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, with her gone, Andrew was only worried about himself. About his inconvenience. Who would make dinner? Not a single “sorry.” Not a single “what happened.” Just “how dare you.” Kate blocked his number. Then his WhatsApp. Then every social network—everywhere he could reach her, she put up a wall. Three years. Three years with a man who never loved her. Who used her kindness as a consumable resource. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love meant. But love isn’t that. Love doesn’t shame you. Love doesn’t reduce a living human being to staff. As Kate walked through London in the evening, she felt lighter than she had in years. She promised herself: never again would she confuse love with self-obliteration. Never again save those who trade on pity. Always choose yourself. Only yourself.

You Dont Deserve It

I used to think Id never trust anyone again after the divorce, Michael murmured, rolling the empty espresso cup between his fingers with such dramatic despair that Sophie couldnt help leaning in. When youre betrayed, its as if you lose a bit of yourself. She left me absolutely shattered. I genuinely thought Id never pick up the pieces, never move on

Michael sighed like a deflating airbed, and he went onat lengthabout his ex-wife, who failed to appreciate his many virtues, about the pain that wouldnt let him go, about the terror of starting afresh. Every word he uttered was another stone in Sophies pocket, warm and aching; she was already imagining herself as the woman to restore his faith in love, the one to patch him up and show him that happiness was only possible with her.

Michael mentioned Oliver on their second date, between a slice of cheesecake and the coffee.

Oh, by the way, I have a son. Hes seven. Lives with his mum, but spends weekends with me. Thats what the court decided.

Thats wonderful! Sophie beamed. Children are little bundles of joy!

She was already picturing Saturday breakfasts for three, trips to the park, and cozy family evenings with Disney films. Clearly, Oliver would need motherly warmth and a soft touch. Shed be his second mumnot a replacement, obviously, but someone close and caring

Youre sure youre fine with that? Michael asked, wearing a strange half-smile Sophie took for caution. Most women take flight when they hear about the kid.

Im not most women, she replied, chin high.

The first weekend with Oliver was quite the event. Sophie made him blueberry pancakeshis favourite, according to Michael. She patiently helped with his maths homework, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and made sure he was in bed at nine sharp.

You should put your feet up, she told Michael, spotting him stretched on the sofa with the remote. I’ll handle things.

Michael nodded in that grateful waythough, in hindsight, it was more like the satisfied nod of a landlord expecting rent.

Months turned into years. Sophie worked as a logistics manager in London; out the door at eight, home by seven. The salary was decentby London standards, at least. Enough for two, but, naturally, there were three.

Theres another hold-up on site, Michael would announce, as sombre as if reporting a train derailment. Clients done a runner. But therell be a big contract soon, I promise.

This mythical big contract shimmered on the horizon for over a year and a half. Sometimes it edged closer; sometimes it ghosted away again; never did it materialise. The bills, however, materialised with clockwork reliability. Rent. Electricity. Wi-Fi. Groceries. Child support for Rebecca. New trainers for Oliver. School contributions.

Sophie paid for everything, wordlessly. She cut back on Pret sandwiches, packed leftover pasta for lunch, never considered an Uber, even when the rain came sideways. No money for proper manicures for at least a yearshe shaped her own nails, trying not to remember a time when she could afford the salon.

In three years, Michael brought her flowers exactly three times. Sophie remembered each limp bouquet from the corner shop by the tube: sad, nearly wilted roses, probably on offer

The first was an apology for calling her hysterical in front of Oliver. The second came after a row triggered by her friend showing up unannounced. The third was handed over because Michael forgot her birthdaytoo busy having a pint with his mates.

Michael, I dont need fancy presents, she would say, choosing her words as you might pick berriestentative and careful. But its nice to know that youre thinking of me. Even just a card

His face warped instantly.

So its all about money for you, is it? Gifts? What about love? About everything Ive suffered?

Thats not what I mean

You dont deserve it! Michael snapped, flinging the words at her like cold tea. After all I do for you, and youve got complaints!

Sophie clammed up. She always didit was just easier. Easier to breathe. Easier to pretend everything was fine.

Strangely, Michael always found money for the important male rituals: drinks with the lads, footie at the pub, the weekly cafe run every Thursday. Hed lurch home merry, smelling of sweat and stale lager and fags, flopping onto the bed, oblivious to Sophie lying awake.

She convinced herself this was how it was meant to be. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change. Of course he would. She only had to wait a bit longer, care a bit harder. Hadnt he suffered enough?

Any talk of marriage was like skipping through a minefield.

Were happy enough as we are, why worry about a piece of paper? Michael would grumble, swatting away the conversation like an annoying fly. After what Rebecca put me through, I need time.

Its been three years, Michael. Thats not a weekend.

Youre putting pressure on me. You always put pressure on me! Hed stomp off, and that was that.

Sophie desperately wanted kids. Her own. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock now clanged like Big Ben every month. But Michael flatly refused to become a second-time dadhe already had Oliver, and that was plenty as far as he was concerned.

That Saturday, all she wanted was a single day off. Just one.

The girls want to catch up. Havent seen them in ages. Ill be home this evening.

Michael stared as if shed suggested sailing to Australia.

What about Oliver?

Hes your son. Have a day together.

So youre abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I wanted a bit of rest?

Sophie blinked, and again. In three years, shed never once left them on their own. Not once asked for a day off. Cooking, cleaning, homework, laundry, ironingall while working full-time.

I just want to see my friends. A few hours Hes your son, Michael. Surely you can manage one day?

Youre supposed to love my child like you love me! Michael suddenly shouted. You live in my flat, eat my food, and now youve got the nerve to show attitude?

His flat. His food. Sophie paid the rent on that flat. Sophie bought the groceries out of her own salary. Three years shed supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a single day with her mates.

She looked at Michaelhis distorted face, bulging vein, clenched fistsand, for the first time, really saw him. Not a broken victim in need of saving, but a grown man whod simply become adept at milking someone elses kindness.

To Michael, Sophie was neither a beloved partner nor a future wife. She was a walking direct debit and a live-in domestic service. That was the sum of it.

As Michael left to drop Oliver at Rebeccas, Sophie quietly fetched her overnight bag. Her hands moved with absolute certaintyno shaking, no doubts. Passport. Phone. Charger. Couple of tops. Pair of jeans. The rest could be replaced. None of it mattered.

She didnt bother with a noteno point explaining to someone for whom shed always been invisible.

The door shut softly behind her, no fanfare, no drama.

Within an hour, her phone erupted. One call, then two, then a torrenthis name flashing again and again, the vibration almost splitting the screen.

Sophie, where are you?! Whats going on?! I get home and youre not here! What on earth am I supposed to do? Wheres dinner? Am I supposed to starve? Is this some sort of joke?

She listened to his angry, indignant voice and marvelled. Even now, as shed walked out, Michael was only concerned for himself. His inconvenience. Whod cook his tea now.

No sorry. No whats happened? Just how dare you.

She blocked him. Then on the messenger appblocked. Social mediablocked. Anywhere he might reach her, she slammed the door.

Three years. Three years with a man who never loved her. Who used her generosity like tissue paper. Who convinced her that martyrdom was love.

But real love isnt humiliation. Real love doesnt turn a bright, brilliant person into the household help.

Sophie walked through London at dusk and, for the first time in years, breathed easily. She promised herself: never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. She would never again rescue someone who played the victim.

From now on, shed always choose herself. Only herself.