Dear Diary,
I thought I’d married a partner… While I paid for the groceries at Tesco, William lingered by the magazines. When I began bagging our things, he drifted outside entirely. I found him smoking near the entrance, already detached. “William, take these,” I requested, handing him two heavy bags bulging with shopping.
He stared at me like I’d asked him to smuggle contraband. “Why can’t you?” he shot back, baffled. I froze—what did he mean? Men naturally offered physical help back home in Manchester. It felt wrong for a woman to stagger under weight while her husband ambled freely.
“They’re heavy,” I insisted.
“So?” he retorted, defiant.
He saw my irritation but dug his heels in, striding ahead. “Take the bags yourself? Like I’m some lackey? I’m a man—I decide!” he fumed inwardly. He deliberately outpaced me, leaving me behind.
“William, wait! Take the bags!” I called, voice cracking. He knew exactly how heavy they were—he’d piled most into the trolley. Our flat was only five minutes away, but laden like this, it felt miles long.
Tears threatened as I walked. Part of me hoped he’d circle back, but he vanished around the corner. I almost abandoned the bags in despair but trudged on numbly. At our building, I collapsed onto a bench, too drained to move. Humiliation burned—he’d not just hurt me; he’d belittled me deliberately. He knew better. The gallant man I’d wed was gone.
“Hello, lovie!” Granny Mary’s voice startled me. Our neighbour from downstairs, she’d been like family since Mum moved to Ipswich. Her pension was tight, and I often treated her to little luxuries.
“Hello, Granny Mary,” I managed.
“Let me walk you up, dear,” I offered, hefting the bags again.
In her flat, I left all the shopping—tinned sprats, cod liver, peaches, biscuits—things she craved but rarely bought. Her tearful gratitude shamed me; I should visit more. We kissed cheeks farewell.
Upstairs, William greeted me in the hall, munching crisps.
“Where are the bags?” he asked casually.
“What bags? The ones you helped carry?” I mirrored his tone.
“Don’t fuss! Are you cross?”
“Not cross,” I said evenly. “Just enlightened.”
He stiffened—expecting tears, not calm.
“And what’s that?” he pressed.
“I haven’t got a husband.” I sighed. “I thought I’d married one, but I’ve just wed a fool.”
“Explain,” he snapped, feigning offence.
“What’s unclear? I want a husband who’s a man. Seems you want your wife to be one too.” I paused. “Then you need a husband yourself.”
His face flushed crimson, fists clenched. Ignoring him, I marched to our room to pack his things. He protested fiercely—how could I wreck our marriage over “a few bags”?
“I hope you can carry your own bag,” I cut in coldly.
This was the first warning. If I excused it now, his control would tighten. So I shut the door behind him. Firmly.
