It was the day Margaret had reached her limit. The entire morning had been spent scrubbing, washing, and tidying, every toy put away, every floor spotless. At last, she peeked into the oven—her roast chicken with potatoes was browning perfectly, filling the kitchen with a scent that made her head spin.
“Ten more minutes,” she muttered, setting the timer before hurrying to the bathroom—just enough time to clean the tiles. Everything was going smoothly. Until the front door slammed.
“Must be the children,” Margaret thought, but it wasn’t her son or daughter who appeared—it was her husband, John, who had claimed since morning he’d been “in the shed.”
“Ah, smells divine!” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Nothing like your roast!”
“Call the children, it’s nearly ready,” Margaret called over her shoulder before turning back to the sink.
Within moments, the house echoed with the thud of bare feet, laughter, and the clatter of discarded shoes. Then came the squabbling. Margaret stepped out, still in her rubber gloves.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I want the leg!” shrieked ten-year-old Emily.
“So do I!” eight-year-old Thomas chimed in.
“There are two,” Margaret pointed out.
“No! There’s only one left!” Emily stamped her foot.
Margaret approached the table. True enough—half the chicken was gone. Only the breast and a lonely potato remained.
“Where’s your father?”
“He left. Took half the chicken and left,” Thomas grumbled.
Margaret snatched up the telephone—no answer. Keys in hand, she stormed out. Rage boiled inside her. Again! He’d taken the best for himself. Only this time, not just for himself—but for his mates. This wasn’t mere greed—it was betrayal.
Behind the house, near the playground bench, sat John with his friends. Beer in hand, the stolen chicken on his lap. Laughing, eating, licking their fingers.
“Enjoying yourselves?” Margaret snapped, her eyes blazing.
“Go home. We’ll talk later,” John muttered, glancing at his mates.
“No, we’ll talk now! You stole food I made for my children! How dare you? You always take the choicest bits for yourself—now you’re feeding your mates with what isn’t yours?”
“Walk away before I lose my temper,” he barked, grabbing her arm.
“What are you doing?” Margaret jerked free. “You’re not just selfish, John—you’re a thief. A thief who steals from his own children to feed a pack of drunks.”
“Stop making a scene, Maggie,” he hissed, humiliated in front of his friends. “It’s just this once.”
“Once? What about the chocolates? The salmon your mother sent, gone in a day? The barbecue where you left the children burnt scraps while you took the best?”
Margaret turned and left.
That evening, when he returned, she stood by the window.
“You should’ve seen yourself,” John sneered. “‘Divorce over a roast chicken’—you belong on a telly show.”
“I’m filing for divorce,” Margaret said coldly. “And you still don’t understand why. Not over the chicken—over your greed, your cruelty, and the fact you think of no one but yourself.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he scoffed. “You’re not even funny.”
“To your mother. The one who taught you the finest things belong to you. Let her share with you now.”
John left, convinced she was bluffing. But the next day, she sent the papers. He moved in with his mother.
Two weeks later, the call came.
“You were right,” her former mother-in-law sighed. “He eats everything here too. I buy a box of biscuits, have one—he’s emptied it by evening. I thought you exaggerated. But he even took the last of the kettle’s water without asking.”
“Do you want me to take him back?” Margaret asked, surprised.
“No… just… venting, I suppose,” the woman chuckled.
“Well then—good luck. I’ve ended my life with that glutton. And you know… I can finally breathe again.”
