**Diary Entry**
While Katherine paid for the groceries, Stephen lingered behind, detached. As she began packing the bags, he slipped out of the shop entirely. Stepping outside, she found him perched on the kerb, puffing on a cigarette.
“Stephen, take the bags, please,” she said, holding out two heavy shopping bags.
He stared at her as if shed asked him to commit a crime. “And you?” he shot back, incredulous.
Katherine faltered. What did he mean, *and you?* Wasnt it natural for a man to help? Strange, reallyher lugging sacks while he strode empty-handed, carefree.
“Theyre heavy,” she pressed.
“So?” he countered, digging in his heels.
He saw her frustration but refused, on principle, to lift a finger. Quickening his pace, he left her behind, mind racing. *Carry the bags? What am I, a pack mule? Some lackey? Im a manI decide. Let her manage. She wont drop dead.* Today, he fancied putting her in her place.
“Stephen, where are you going? Take the bags!” she called, her voice cracking.
He knew full well how heavy they werehed filled the trolley himself. The flat wasnt far, just five minutes on foot. But weighed down, the walk stretched endlessly.
Katherine trudged home, tears welling. She half-expected him to double back, to laugh it offbut no. He only shrank further into the distance. The urge to dump everything nearly won, but she soldiered on in a daze. Reaching their building, she collapsed onto the entrance bench, drained. Anger and exhaustion battled inside her, but crying in public? Unthinkable. Yet swallowing this? Never. He hadnt just slighted herhed *humiliated* her. And this from the man whod once doted on her. Precisely calculated, she knew.
“Hello, Katherine!” A neighbours voice snapped her back.
“Hello, Mrs. Whitmore,” she replied, forcing a smile.
Mrs. WhitmoreAgnes to mostlived one floor down and had been her grandmothers dearest friend. Since Nan passed, shed been the only family Katherine had left. Mum lived up in Leeds now, remarried with new children; Dad was a ghost. Agnes was all she had.
Without a second thought, Katherine handed her the shopping. At least the haul wasnt wasted. On a pension, Agnes pinched pennies, and Katherine loved spoiling her with treats.
“Come on, Ill help you up,” she said, hefting the bags again.
In Agness kitchen, she unloaded everything, insisting it was hers. The tin of salmon, the pâté, the peaches in syrupluxuries Agnes adored but rarely boughtbrought such joy that Katherine felt a pang of guilt for not gifting more often. They parted with a peck on the cheek, and Katherine headed upstairs.
Inside, her husband emerged from the kitchen, chewing.
“Where are the bags?” Stephen asked, as if nothing had happened.
“What bags?” she echoed coolly. “The ones you helped me carry?”
“Oh, come off it, dont be dramatic,” he teased. “Youre not cross, are you?”
“No,” she said evenly. “Just drawing conclusions.”
He stiffened. Hed expected shouting, tears, a rowthis calm unsettled him.
“What conclusions?”
“I dont have a husband,” she sighed. “Thought Id married one, but apparently, I wed a prat.”
“Pardon?” he feigned offence.
“Whats unclear?” She held his gaze. “I want a husband whos a *man.* And you, it seems, want a wife whos a man.” A beat. “So what you *need* is a husband.”
Stephen flushed, fists clenchingbut Katherine missed it. She was already in the bedroom, packing his things.
He resisted to the last. Refused to leave. How could something so petty end a marriage?
“It was fine! Whats the harm in carrying a few bags?” he argued as she flung shirts into his suitcase.
“Your suitcasehope you can manage it alone,” she said, tuning him out.
This was just the first warning, she knew. If she swallowed disrespect now, the indignities would only grow. So she ended it, shutting the door behind him.
