It was on that day that Emily had reached her limit. All morning—cleaning, laundry, toys put away, floors scrubbed. At last, she peeked into the oven: the roast chicken and potatoes were browning, filling the kitchen with a scent that made her head spin.
“Just ten more minutes,” she muttered, setting the timer before hurrying to the bathroom—she had just enough time to scrub the tiles. Everything was going smoothly. Until the front door slammed.
“Must be the children,” Emily thought, but it wasn’t her son or daughter who appeared in the doorway—it was her husband, William, who had claimed he’d been “in the shed” all morning.
“Oh, smells divine!” he rubbed his hands eagerly. “Nothing like your roast!”
“Call the children, it’s time for supper,” Emily called over her shoulder, returning to the sink.
Within moments, the flat echoed with the patter of bare feet, thrown-off trainers, and loud laughter. Emily heard bickering and stepped out, not waiting for the timer.
“What’s happened?” she asked, still in rubber gloves.
“I want the drumstick!” wailed ten-year-old Sophie.
“So do I!” eight-year-old Oliver chimed in.
“There are two,” Emily pointed out.
“No! There’s only one left!” Sophie stamped her foot.
Emily walked to the table. Sure enough—half the chicken was gone. Only dry breast and a lonely potato remained.
“Where’s your father?”
“He left. Took half the chicken and went,” Oliver mumbled.
Emily snatched her phone and rang William—no answer. Grabbing her keys, she dashed outside. Fury burned inside her: again! He’d taken the best for himself. Only this time—not even for himself, but for his mates. This wasn’t just greed—it was a betrayal of the home.
By the playground bench, William sat with his friends, beer in hand, the stolen chicken on his lap. Laughing, eating, licking their fingers.
“Enjoying yourselves?” Emily stormed over, eyes blazing.
“Go home, we’ll talk later,” William muttered, glancing at his mates.
“No, we’ll talk now! You stole food I cooked for our children! Have you no shame? It’s never enough that you always take the best for yourself—now you’re feeding mates with what isn’t yours?”
“Walk away while I’m holding my temper,” he snapped, gripping her elbow.
“What are you doing?” Emily jerked free. “You’re not just selfish, you’re a thief, William. A thief who steals from his own children to feed a pack of layabouts.”
“Stop making a scene, Em,” he seethed, humiliated before his friends. “It’s just this once.”
“Just once? What about the chocolates? The salmon your mother sent, gone in a day? Or the barbecue where you left the kids burnt scraps while you took the juicy cuts?”
Emily turned and left.
That evening, when he returned, she stood by the window.
“You should’ve seen yourself,” William scoffed. “‘Divorce over a roast chicken.’ Straight out of a telly drama, you are.”
“I’m filing for divorce,” Emily said coldly. “You still don’t understand why. Not the chicken. Your selfishness, your greed—thinking of no one but yourself.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he snorted. “You’re not even amusing.”
“To your mother’s. The same one who taught you the best is always yours. Let her share with you now.”
William left, convinced Emily was bluffing. But the next day, she filed the papers. He moved in with his mother.
Two weeks later, the phone rang.
“You were right,” her former mother-in-law sighed. “He’s eating me out of house and home. I buy sweets, have one—he scoffs the rest the same night. Thought you were exaggerating. But he even poured the last of the kettle without asking.”
“D’you want me to take him back?” Emily asked, surprised.
“Oh, no… just… needed to complain, I s’pose,” the woman chuckled.
“Well then—good luck. I’ve done with that glutton. And you know… I can finally breathe again.”
