**Ungrateful**
*Saturday, 8 AM*
“Emily, we’re starving! Stop lying around!” My husbands grumbling voice cut through the fog of my headache. My throat burned, my nose was blocked, and my limbs felt like lead. No surpriseI was ill.
All week had been scorching, but yesterday evening brought a sudden downpour of sleet. Spring in London. No taxis were availablehardly a shock in such weatherso Id taken the bus home from work. Thirty minutes waiting, only to squeeze into a packed bus. Then a long walk from the stop in the freezing rain.
Id asked James to pick me up on his way.
“Em, Tommy and I are stopping by Mums. Well be late,” hed said.
Typical.
By the time I got home, I was soaked and shivering. Now it was Saturday morning.
“James, could you fetch the thermometer?” I croaked.
“What? Youre ill?” He sounded baffled. “What about breakfast?”
“Could you manage without me?”
“Manage? How? What about Tommy?”
“Hes ten! And youre a grown man. Make scrambled eggs. Let him helpI taught him.”
“You taught him to cook?” James scoffed.
“Yes. Whats wrong with that? Hes glued to his phone all day. Wont lift a finger.”
“Are you delirious? Hes a boy! Men dont cookthats womens work!” James snapped. “Fine. Well go to Mums if you cant be bothered. Back tomorrow.”
In minutes, they were gone.
I dragged myself up, found the thermometer, boiled the kettle, and wonderedwhen had things changed? When had caring for each other stopped mattering? When had every chore become my duty?
The thermometer beeped: 102.5°F. I took medicine and collapsed back into bed.
Later, my phone rang. Mum.
“Emily, why havent you called? I was worried!”
“Just a bit poorly, Mum. Took medicine and slept.”
“A bit? Wheres James? Off with Tommy to his mothers again?”
“Gone. Didnt want to catch it.”
“You believe that? More like didnt want to lift a finger! Heaven forbid he washes a dish!”
“Mum”
“Dont Mum me! I didnt raise you to be a servant. Did you check your temperature?”
“Yes. High this morning. Better now, but Im exhausted.”
“Stay put. Dads coming to fetch you. You shouldnt be alone when youre ill. Wait.”
I washed up, packed my laptop, and met Dad at the door.
“Blimey!” He clutched his chest.
“Dad! Whats wrong?”
“Thought Id seen a ghost! Youre pale as milk.”
“Dont scare me like that!” I smiled weakly.
“Come on. Hold my armyou look like a strong gustll knock you over.” He helped me into the car. “Skin and bones. Your mothers rightits like youve been enslaved. No offence, love, but you look dreadful.”
At Mum and Dads, it was warm, cosy, and safe. By evening, I felt better.
I called James to say I wasnt home. His reply was lazy:
“What dyou want me to do? Cant bring medicinehad a pint with Dad. Its Saturday! Footballs on. Oh, Mum wants a word.”
His mothers voice was sharp:
“Emily, youre a woman! You cant neglect your men. What matters most? Keeping them fed, warm, and undisturbed! And here you arelying about. Take a pill and carry on!”
Mum snatched the phone:
“Dear Margaret, is your son helpless? Ill? Or just the sort who expects to be waited on hand and foot?”
“Dont be daft! Hes a family man. All men are like that.”
“Really? My daughters ill, and your boys celebrating with a beer. Cant even fetch medicine. Some husband!”
“Rubbish! They left to give Emily peace. Shes healthyjust lazy. Forgetting her duties! But dont worryIll care for *my* boys. Your girls a cuckoo!”
Mum hung up, fuming.
“Love, do you need this? Youre young. This is too much.”
Then James texted:
*Send money? Short before payday. Spent it all on Tommys clubs and clothes.*
*Ive paid all the bills and groceries this month. Fair?* I replied, stunned.
*Course its fairits your flat! Hurry upIm at the shop.*
*No money. Spent it on medicine.*
*What? Your illness is costing us! Ask your parents.*
*Ask your mum.*
*Shed ask where my wages went.*
*So would I.*
*Im a man! I dont answer to you or her! Send it now!*
*No.*
The replies flooded in*selfish, ungrateful, terrible wife and mother*. I turned off notifications.
Sunday morning, James called:
“Emily, were staying at Mums. She actually cares for us. She was rightI shouldnt have married you. Youre a useless mother. A cuckoo!”
Dad grinned.
“Well? What dyou say?”
“Divorce. I dont want this.”
That afternoon, Dad handed me new keys.
“Yours now. Changed the locks. Packed their things and took them to Margarets. Youll stay here awhile. And avoid your phonesafer that way.”
Mum hummed in the kitchen, relieved. Theyd waited for me to see the truth.
The divorce was swiftno shared children or property. James had taken Tommy a year into our marriage to avoid child support. His ex-wife hadnt objected.
Hed forgotten to ask me. Forgotten Tommy and I clashed. Forgotten the flat was mine. Forgotten everythingexcept his comfort.
Now? He lives with his mother, who budgets his wages and makes him help at home. Three men under one roof isnt easy.
And me? At 27, after a brutal divorce?
I bought a carno more waiting in the rain.
And the lesson? Simple.
Love yourself first.
