Where did you put the napkins? I told you to fetch those with the silver pattern, they match the tablecloth

You Don’t Deserve It “I thought I’d never trust anyone again after my divorce,” Andrew turned an empty espresso cup in his hands, his voice cracking so sincerely that Kate couldn’t help but lean forward. “When someone betrays you like that, it’s as if they take a piece of you with them. She left me with wounds I thought I’d never recover from…” Andrew’s story went on, heavy with sighs. About the wife who never appreciated him. About the pain that never let go. About the fear of starting over. Every word fell onto Kate’s heart like a reassuring pebble, and she found herself imagining being the woman who could restore his faith in love. She’d be the one to heal him. With her, true happiness would finally be possible. Andrew mentioned Max during their second date, between dessert and coffee. “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. He lives with his mum but spends weekends with me. That’s what the court decided.” “That’s lovely!” Kate replied brightly. “Children are a blessing.” She already pictured Saturday breakfasts for three, trips to the park, quiet evenings in. The boy would need nurturing and warmth, and she’d happily be his second mum—not a replacement, but someone close and caring. “You’re sure you’re alright with it?” Andrew looked at her with a strange smirk she mistook for nerves. “Most women run as soon as they hear about a kid.” “I’m not most women,” she said proudly. Their first weekend with Max was a delight. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, according to Andrew. She patiently sat with the maths homework, washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and made sure he was tucked up by nine. “You should get some rest,” she said to Andrew, noticing him sprawled on the sofa with the remote. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, or so she thought. Now she realised it was more the nod of a man accepting what was due. Months slipped into years. Kate worked as a logistics manager, gone by eight in the morning, back by seven at night. The pay was decent, at least for London. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “There are construction delays again,” Andrew would say as if announcing a national disaster. “The client’s strung us along. But there’s a big contract coming up, promise.” This “big contract” had been on the horizon for a year and a half now. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes not, but it never arrived. Only the bills kept coming, regular as clockwork. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child support to Max’s mum. New trainers for Max. School trip deposits. Kate paid for it all without complaint. She skipped lunch out, brought leftovers, walked instead of getting a cab even in the rain. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—she filed her nails herself, trying not to remember the days when she’d treat herself to a salon. In three years, Andrew bought her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered every bouquet—cheap supermarket roses from the corner shop by her flat, already wilting and thornless, most likely on special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second, after a row caused by a friend dropping in without warning. The third, a peace offering when he missed her birthday thanks to a pub crawl with his mates. Or maybe he just forgot. “Andrew, I don’t need expensive gifts,” she tried to speak softly, choosing every word with care. “But sometimes it’d be nice to know you’re thinking of me. Even just a card…” His face twisted. “So it’s all about money for you, is it? All about presents? Don’t you ever think about love? Don’t you know what I’ve been through?” “That’s not—” “You don’t deserve it.” He flung the words at her like mud. “After all I do for you, how dare you complain?” Kate fell silent. She always did. It was easier that way. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend. Yet Andrew never seemed short of cash for nights out with his mates. Pubs, footie on the big screen, and café catch-ups every Thursday. He’d come home, tipsy, reeking of sweat and tobacco, flopping into bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She kept telling herself: This is what love means. Love is sacrifice. Love is patience. He’ll change. He must. Just give him more time and love him harder. He’s been through so much… Conversations about marriage were a minefield. “We’re happy as we are, aren’t we? Why ruin it with a bit of paper?” Andrew would brush the topic away as if swatting a wasp. “After what I went through with my ex, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pressuring me. You’re always pressuring me!” He’d storm off, and the conversation would end. Kate wanted children—her own. She was twenty-eight and her biological clock was ticking ever louder. But Andrew didn’t want more—he had a son already, and that was enough for him. One Saturday, Kate asked for just one thing—a day off. “My friends want me round. It’s been ages. I’ll be back tonight.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d suggested fleeing the country. “And Max? What about him?” “You’re his dad. Spend a day with your son.” “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? I was counting on a break!” Kate blinked and blinked again. In three years, she’d never left them on their own. Not once had she asked for a day off. Cooking, cleaning, helping with homework, laundry, ironing—alongside a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours. And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can manage for one day without me?” “You’re supposed to love my child the way you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’re playing up?!” His flat. His food. Yet Kate was paying the rent. Kate did the shopping. For three years, she supported a man who shouted at her for wanting one day to herself. She looked at him—at his contorted face, the vein throbbing in his temple, his clenched fists—and saw him clearly for the first time. Not a helpless victim. Not a lost soul needing rescue. But a grown man expertly exploiting her kindness. To Andrew, Kate wasn’t a beloved partner or future wife. She was a cash machine and a housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew took Max back to his mum’s, Kate packed her suitcase. Her hands were steady—no shaking, no doubts. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of tops. Jeans. The rest she’d buy, or leave behind. It didn’t matter. She didn’t leave a note. What was the point explaining herself to someone who never valued her? The latch clicked quietly as she stepped out. No shouting. No drama. The calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a barrage—a constant vibration from the phone. “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re gone! What do you think you’re playing at?! Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? This is disgusting!” She listened as his angry, self-righteous voice shrieked at her—still only thinking of himself, of his inconvenience, of who’d now make his dinner. No “sorry.” No “are you alright?” Just “how dare you?” She blocked his number. Then his messenger, then all his socials—anywhere he could reach her, she closed the door. Three years. Three years with a man who never loved her. Who saw her only as a resource to be drained dry. Who convinced her sacrifice was the definition of love. But love doesn’t degrade. Love doesn’t turn a person into a servant. Kate wandered through the cool London evening, breathing easier than she had in years. She vowed—never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. Never again would she save those who preyed on her kindness. She would always choose herself. Only herself…

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