I Thought I Found My Forever…

Bloody hell. Thought I married Catherine properly… While Cathy paid for the shopping at the Sainsbury’s in Peckham, I lingered off to the side. Then when she started bagging it all, I slipped outside for a smoke. She came out, spotted me, and walked over.
“Crikey, James, take these bags?” Cathy held out two heavy carriers.
I looked at her like she’d asked me to nick something. “You what?”
She seemed flummoxed. What did ‘you what’ mean? Blokes *help*, it’s basic manners. A woman struggling with heavy bags while her chap ambles along isn’t the done thing, is it?
“They’re dead heavy, James,” she insisted.
“So?” I dug in my heels. Could see she was getting narked, but on principle, I wouldn’t carry that stuff. I strode off quickly, knowing she couldn’t keep up with the weight. *”Take the bags” indeed! Do I look like an errand boy? Some henpecked fool? I’m the man! I decide if I carry bags! Let her manage; won’t do her any harm.* Felt like putting my foot down today.
“James! Where you going? Take the bags!” she called after me, near tears.
They *were* heavy. I knew it; I’d piled half the stuff into the trolley. The flat was only five minutes’ walk. But dead weight makes any distance feel longer.
Walking home, Cathy felt like crying. Hoped I was joking, that I’d turn back. But no. She watched me get smaller down the street. Felt like dumping the bags right there, but in a daze, she lugged them on.
At the block entrance, she collapsed onto the bench, knackered. Wanted to bawl from hurt and tiredness, but swallowed it – crying on the street? Embarrassing. Couldn’t swallow down the situation itself though. It wasn’t just hurtful, it was humiliating. He used to be so attentive before the wedding… And it wasn’t ignorance; he *knew*. Chose to be a prat.
“Alright, love?” Mrs Davies’s voice snapped her out of it.
“Afternoon, Mrs Davies,” Cathy mumbled. The old dear lived downstairs. Known her since Cathy was little – another grandma, really. Since her gran passed, and Cathy hit life’s bumps, Mrs Davies always helped. Cathy’s mum lived up in Leeds with her new husband and kids, her dad long gone. Mrs Davies was it now.
Without a second thought, Cathy decided Mrs Davies could have all this shopping. Wasn’t dragging it home for nothing. Pension money only stretched so far.
“Come on, Mrs D, I’ll see you to your door,” Cathy said, grabbing those awful bags again.
Up in the flat, Cathy plonked down the carriers. “All yours.” Seeing the smoked salmon, digestives, tinned peaches, and other bits she fancied but rarely bought, Mrs Davies went all teary. Made Cathy feel dead guilty she didn’t pop round more often. They hugged goodbye, and Cathy headed upstairs.
She walked in. I met her from the kitchen, munching on crisps. “Where’s the bags?” Casual as anything.
“What bags?” Cathy matched my tone. “The ones *you* helped carry?”
“Oh, give over!” I tried a laugh. “Not sulking, are you?”
“No.” Calm as you like. “Made my mind up.”
That put the wind up me. Expected shouting, tears, a proper dust-up. This quiet was unnerving.
“Mind up about what?”
“Don’t have a husband.” She sighed. “Thought I married a man. Turns out I wed a daft git.”
“Charming,” I played offended, heartily.
“What’s not clear?” Cathy stared me down. “I want a husband who’s a man. Seems you want a wife who’s a man too.” She paused. “Best find yourself a bloke, then.”
My face burned with rage, fists clenched. But Cathy was already in the bedroom, yanking my clothes from the wardrobe. I argued like mad. Didn’t want to go. Couldn’t grasp throwing it all away over *bags*:
“Was fine before! So you carried the bags! Big deal!” I fumed as she carelessly tossed my shirts into a holdall.
“You’ll manage your own bag, I expect.” She cut me off. “Out.”
Cathy knew this was just the start. Let this slide, and the next demand to ‘keep her in check’ would be worse. Packed the last sock. Shoved me and the holdall onto the landing. Slammed the door. Best thing I ever made her do. Shows you: partnership means lifting burdens together, not leaving your wife stranded at the kerb with the groceries. A man leads by carrying his share. Anything less is just poor form.