I Thought I Had Found My Forever…

I recall believing I’d wed a gentleman, yet while Emily settled the bill at the grocer’s, Arthur stood idly aside, drifting outside entirely as she packed the shopping; emerging, she found him smoking and asked, “Arthur, carry these parcels,” offering two heavy bags, to which he stared as if ordered into crime, demanding indignantly, “Why can’t you manage?” – Emily floundered, baffled by his refusal, for gentlemen surely assisted, and it felt profoundly wrong for her to struggle laden while he strolled freely beside her. “They’re terribly heavy,” she insisted softly. “So?” he countered stubbornly, seeing her simmering anger but refusing on principle, marching ahead knowing she’d lag, inwardly raging, “Carry the bags? Like some lackey? A man chooses his burdens!” resolved today to train his wife. “Arthur, where are you going? Take the bags!” she pleaded tearfully; he knew their weight, having filled the trolley himself, yet abandoned her, and though home was but minutes away, burdened, the walk felt endless until, reaching their building’s entry, she slumped onto a bench, swallowing tears of exhaustion and deep hurt, stung by his calculated insult, remembering his erstwhile attentiveness sharply contrasted with this deliberate slight. “Hello, Emily dear!” broke in Granny Aggie – Mrs Agatha Wilson, neighbour below, longtime friend of Emily’s late grandmother and Emily’s sole support since, her own mother distant with a new family – prompting Emily, without hesitation, to deliver all the heavy groceries to Granny Aggie’s flat: sardines, digestives, marmalade, those tinned peaches she adored; profoundly touched by luxuries she seldom afforded on her pension, Granny Aggie wept grateful tears, leaving Emily guilt-ridden she hadn’t visited more. Kissing goodbye, Emily climbed to her flat where Arthur met her at the kitchen door, chewing casually: “Where’s the shopping?” mimicking his tone, she asked, “The parcels? The ones you assisted with?” He attempted levity: “Oh, come now, sweeting, surely you’re not sore?” “No,” Emily replied evenly. “I merely reached conclusions.” His manner shifted, uneasy at her calm; “Conclusions?” “I’ve no husband,” she sighed softly. “I thought I’d married a man; turns out I’ve wedded a fool.” Feigning deep offence, he exclaimed, “What?”, to which Emily met his gaze squarely: “It’s plain, Arthur. I want a husband who is a man. You clearly wish your wife to do a man’s duty. Then you need a husband,” adding pointedly as she walked away to pack his things while he blustered furiously, “It was good before! Over carrying bags?” until she cut sharply across him: “Your bag, I trust, you’ll carry yourself,” knowing this tolerance’s end meant only escalating demands, ending his tenure at her door that very day.