You Didn’t Deserve It “I thought after my divorce I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” said Andrew, absently spinning his empty espresso cup between his fingers, his voice trembling so convincingly that Katie leaned in without thinking. “You know, when someone betrays you, it feels like you lose a part of yourself. She did me irreparable emotional harm. I didn’t think I’d ever get out, not sure I’d even survive…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for quite a while. About his ex-wife, who never appreciated him. About pain that wouldn’t let go. About the fear of starting all over again. Every word landed in Katie’s heart like a warm stone, and she was already picturing herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. The one to help him heal. The one who’d show him true happiness was possible—with her. Andrew brought up Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee. “I have a son, actually—he’s seven. He lives with his mum but spends every weekend with me. That’s what the court decided.” “That’s wonderful!” Katie beamed. “Children are such a blessing.” She already envisioned it all: Saturday breakfasts for three, park outings, cozy evenings watching telly. The boy needed a woman’s touch, a bit of motherly warmth. She would be his second mum—not a replacement for the real one, of course, but someone close, someone he could count on. “Are you sure you’re okay with it?” Andrew studied her face with a strange smile she mistook for distrust. “A lot of women run the other way when they hear about a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a real celebration. Katie made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She sat patiently over maths homework, explained sums in simple words, washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and saw to it he was tucked in by nine. “You need a break,” she told Andrew gently one day, noticing how he had sprawled on the sofa, TV remote in hand. “I can handle things.” Andrew nodded—a grateful nod, she thought. Now she realised it was the nod of a landlord taking what’s due. Months became years. Katie worked as a manager at a logistics company, left the house before eight, came back at seven. Decent pay—by London standards, anyway. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve postponed things again at the site,” Andrew would grumble, as though reporting a natural disaster. “The client’s bailed. But there’s a big contract coming, promise you.” That big contract had stayed on the horizon for a year and a half—sometimes edging closer, sometimes fading away, but never quite real. The bills, however, arrived like clockwork. Rent. Electricity. Broadband. Groceries. Child support to Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Katie paid everything in silence. She scrimped on work lunches, packed cold pasta in Tupperware, walked home in the rain instead of taking a cab. She’d gone a year without a manicure—kept her nails filed herself, trying not to think about when she could afford a proper salon. In three years, Andrew brought her flowers exactly three times. She remembered every sad bouquet—half-wilted roses from a 24-hour shop near the tube, their broken stems speared in cellophane. Probably on a special offer. The first time was because he called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when a friend visited, unannounced. The third—when he missed her birthday entirely, having stayed late with mates. Or simply because he’d forgotten. “Andrew, I don’t care about expensive gifts,” she tried to say gently, choosing her words. “But sometimes I just want to know you’re thinking of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted at once. “You just care about money—that’s it, isn’t it? Presents. What about love? Everything I’ve been through?” “That’s not what I—” “You didn’t deserve it,” he spat, flinging the words like mud. “After all I do for you, more complaints?” Katie went quiet. She always did—it was easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Of course, he always had cash for pub nights with the lads: beers, football matches, Thursday dinners. He’d stagger home, reeking of sweat and smoke, not noticing Katie was still awake. She told herself this was how it was meant to be. Love means sacrifice. Patience. He would change. He had to. She just needed to take care of him better, love him more—he’d been through so much. Discussions about marriage became like tiptoeing through a minefield. “We’re happy, aren’t we? Why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would swat away the topic like a persistent fly. “After what I went through with Marina, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re pressuring me! Always pressuring!” He’d snap, leave the room, and nothing ever came of the conversation. Katie wanted children. Her own, her flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, her biological clock ticked louder in her ear each month. But Andrew had no interest in fatherhood again—he already had a son, that was enough. One Saturday, she asked for just one day. That was all. “The girls have invited me round. Haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll be back tonight.” Andrew glared at her as if she’d just said she was emigrating. “And Max?” “He’s your son, Andrew. Have the day with him. Just you two.” “So you’re just leaving us? On a Saturday? I was counting on a bit of rest.” Katie blinked, once, then again. For three years, she’d never left them alone. Cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, did the laundry and ironing—all whilst holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… He’s your son. Can’t you cope for one day without me?” “You’re supposed to love my child as much as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing attitude?!” His flat. His food. Katie paid that rent. She bought that food with her pay. For three years, she’d supported a man who shouted at her for requesting a day off to see friends. She looked at him—at his contorted face, the throbbing vein in his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him for the first time. Not a tragic victim of circumstance. Not a lost soul in need of saving. But a grown man who’d mastered the art of using other people’s kindness. To Andrew, she was not a loved one, not a future wife. She was a cash machine and free housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max at Marina’s, Katie took out a holdall. Her hands moved steadily, with purpose—no trembling, no second thoughts. Papers. Phone. Charger. A couple of t-shirts. A pair of jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t leave a note. No point explaining yourself to someone who never saw you at all. The door closed softly behind her, drama-free. Within an hour, the calls began. One, then another, then a flood—her phone vibrated with a relentless trill. “Katie, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home—no sign of you! How dare you? Where’s my dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? How can you do this?” She listened to his rage—angry, outraged, self-righteous—and marvelled. Even now, as she left, Andrew only thought of himself. His discomfort. Who would make dinner. Not a word of sorry. Not a word of concern. Just “How dare you?” Katie blocked his number. Then found his profile on WhatsApp—blocked that too. Socials—blocked everywhere. Anywhere he could reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years living with a man who never loved her. Who used her kindness like a limitless resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But love isn’t like that. Real love never means humiliation. It never turns you into a servant. Katie strolled through the evening streets of London and, for the first time in ages, could breathe easy. She promised herself she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again save those who prey on pity. And to always choose herself. Only herself…

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 2

I suppose, looking back now, that I used to believe Id never trust anyone again after the divorce. I sat there, turning my empty espresso cup between my fingers, and my voice must have waveredI could see Sarah leaning in, concerned. You know, betrayal its as if you lose a part of yourself. What Helen did left a mark that simply wont heal. For the longest time, I didnt think Id make it through

I rambled on for quite a while, telling Sarah about my ex-wife, how she never appreciated me, about the ache that lingered, and my fear of starting over. Every word seemed to land heavily, and I could see she wanted to be the woman whod restore my faith in love. She probably imagined us healing old wounds together, forging happiness I could never have found alone.

It wasnt until our second date, over pudding and coffee, that I mentioned Jackmy son. By the way, I have a boyhes seven. He lives with his mum, but the court ruled he stays with me every weekend.

Thats wonderful! Sarah smiled wide. Children are such joy.

I could see her dreaming up family breakfasts, trips to Hyde Park, evenings curled up in front of the telly. She probably thought Jack needed a gentle guiding hand, the warmth only a woman can bring. Maybe, in time, shed become a second mumnot a substitute, of course, but someone special.

Youre sure youre all right with this? I asked, with what must have looked like skepticism, though honestly, Id grown wary. A lot of women leg it when a kids involved.

Im not a lot of women, she replied, dignity in her voice.

That first weekend with Jack turned into a proper treat. Sarah made blueberry pancakes (Jacks favourite, Id told her), patiently helped him with his maths homework, washed his dinosaur t-shirt, pressed his school uniform, and saw to it he was tucked in by nine.

You should put your feet up, she said once, watching me loll with the TV remote. Ill manage.

I noddedprobably grateful at the time, though now I can see it was just the nod of a man accepting what hed come to expect.

Months blurred into years. Sarah worked as a logistics manager, left for the office before eight, got back after seven. Her pay was decent by London standardsenough for two, but there were three of us.

Another delay at the site, Id grumble, as though announcing a flood. Another client let me down. But theres a big contract comingI promise.

That big contract lingered on the horizon for the best part of eighteen months. It never arrived, but the bills did: rent, electric, broadband, groceries, child support for Helen, new trainers for Jack, school contributions. Sarah paid, quietly. She saved on lunches, packed up leftover pasta, and wouldnt even get a cab in the rain. She did her own nails, filed them short, trying not to remember a time she could treat herself at a salon.

In three years, I bought her flowers exactly three times. She remembered every bunchcheap roses from the kiosk outside the tube, drooping, stems snapped from overhandling, obviously picked from the clearance pile.

The first was because Id called her hysterical in front of Jack. The second, after she fell out with her friend whod popped round without warning. The third, when I didnt show for her birthdayId lost track of time with the boys at the pub. Or maybe I just forgot.

Andrew, I dont need expensive gifts, she told me, picking her words. Its just sometimes Id like to know youre thinking of me. A card, maybe

I must have scowled. So, its all about money, is it? Just presents? Do you ever think about how much Ive been through, how much I love you?

Thats not what I she tried, softly.

You dont deserve it, I snapped, flinging the words at her like dirt. After everything I do, youve the nerve to complain.

Sarah always fell silent at that. It was easier that wayto carry on, to pretend.

And yet, somehow, Andrew always found cash for pints out with the lads, footie nights, cafes after work on Thursdays. Hed come home bubbly, smelling of sweat and smoke, never noticing Sarah waiting up.

She convinced herself it was how love worked. Love meant sacrifice. Love was patient. Hed change. Just a bit more time, a bit more giving, a bit more love. Hed been through enough.

Any talk of marriage was suddenly walking through a minefield.

Were happy as we are, arent we? Why ruin it with paperwork? Id say, brushing the topic off. After Helen, its just give me more time.

Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.

You always push me! Always! Id shout, then storm out, ending it.

Sarah desperately wanted children of her own. She was twenty-eight, her biological clock ever louder. But I wasnt having another go at parenthoodnot when I already had a son, and didnt see why there should be more.

One Saturday, she just asked for a single day. That was all.

The girls have invited me round. Its been ages. Ill be back this evening.

I looked at her as if shed said she was moving to Australia.

And what about Jack?

Hes your son, Andrewyoull manage.

So youre abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was counting on a break?

She blinked. In three years, shed never left us alone. Shed cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, done the laundryall while working full time.

Id just like to see my friends, a few hours And hes your child too. Can you not spend one Saturday with him without me here?

Youre meant to love my son as your own! I roared. You live under my roof, eat my food, and now you think you can just do as you like?

My flat, my food. Sarah paid the rent. Sarah bought the groceries. Shed provided for three years, and here I was, shouting at her for wanting a single afternoon with her own friends.

She looked at me then, really looked. Saw not some wounded soul in need of rescue, not a lost man, but a grown adult whod mastered the art of relying on anothers kindness. To me, Sarah wasnt a partner, or a future wife. She was an ATM and unpaid staff. Thats all.

When I took Jack back to Helens a while later, Sarah pulled out her overnight bagsmooth, sure movements, no shaking hands, no hesitation. Passport, phone, charger, two t-shirts, jeans. Whatever else, shed sort it out. Nothing else mattered.

She didnt bother leaving a note. Why explain to someone who never saw her?

The door closed behind her softlyno ceremony.

The calls started an hour later: once, then twice, then a deluge.

Sarah, where are you?! Whats going on?! I come home, and youre not here! Whats this about?! Theres no dinner! Am I supposed to starve? Bloody disgrace!

She listened to my rantdemanding, indignant, outraged. Even now, after shed gone, all I cared about was myself. My inconvenience. Whod cook my tea. No sorry. No what happened. Just how dare you.

Sarah blocked my number. Then messenger. Then Facebook. Everywhere I might reach her, she put up a wall.

Three years. Three years with a man who didnt love her. Who bleached her kindness dry. Who convinced her sacrifice equalled love.

But thats not love. Love doesnt degrade. Love doesnt turn a person into a skivvy.

Sarah walked through the dusky London streets, breathing freely for the first time in years. She swore shed never confuse love with self-denial again. Shed never save those who used pity as leverage.

The most important thing in life, Ive learnt much too late, is to choose yourselfand not let anyone tell you that you dont deserve to.