**THE UNGRATEFUL**
“Sophie, we’re starving! Stop lying about!” came her husband’s irritated voice, sharp in her ear. Her head throbbed, her throat burned, and her nose was completely blocked. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt like wet cotton. No wonder shed fallen ill.
All week, the weather had been unseasonably warm, but yesterday evening, it had turnedsleet and rain, the cruel whims of an English spring. Shed tried to call a cab, but in such weather, none were to be had. The bus had been packed when it finally arrived after a half-hour wait, and shed barely squeezed inside. Then thered been the long walk home from the stop.
Shed asked James to pick her up on his way.
“Sorry, love, Archie and I popped round Mums. Well be late,” hed said.
As usual.
By the time Sophie stumbled through the door, she was soaked and shivering. Now it was Saturday morning, half-eight.
“James, could you fetch the thermometer?” she croaked.
“What? Youre ill?” He sounded surprised. “What about breakfast?”
“Could you manage on your own?”
“On our own?” He scoffed. “What about Archie?”
“Hes ten! And youre a grown man. Make scrambled eggslet him help. Ive taught him before. Hes old enough.”
“Youve been teaching *him* to cook?” James gaped.
“Yes. Whats the harm? Hes glued to his phone all day, never lifts a finger.”
“Have you lost your mind? Hes a *boy*! Men dont cookthats *womens* work!” James snapped. “Right, fine. Well go to Mums, since youre useless. Well be back tomorrow night.”
In minutes, he and Archie were gone. Sophie dragged herself up, found the thermometer, put the kettle on, and sank into thought.
*When had it happened? When had James stopped caring for her when she was ill? When had every household duty become hers alone?*
The thermometer beeped102.4°F. She swallowed her medicine and crawled back to bed.
Her phone woke her later. Her mother.
“Sophie, why havent you called? I was worried!”
“Just a bit poorly, Mum. Took some pills and slept.”
“A *bit*? Wheres James? Off with Archie at 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! Ive a right to be cross. I didnt raise you to be a drudge! Have you taken your temperature?”
“Earlier, yes. High. Better now, but still weak.”
“Stay put. Your fathers coming. You shant be alone like this. Wait.”
Sophie forced herself up, washed, packed a few things, and met her father at the door.
“Blimey!” He clutched his chest.
“Dad! Whats wrong?”
“Lord, girlyou look half-dead! Pale as a ghost!” He took her bag gently. “Come on, hold my arm. A stiff breezed knock you over.”
As he helped her into the car, he frowned. “Skin and bones, exhausted. Your mothers rightits like youve been enslaved. No offence, love, but you look dreadful.”
Sophie didnt argue. She was too tired.
At her parents, it was warm, safe, and full of love. By evening, her mothers care had her feeling better. She rang James to say she wasnt home.
“What dyou want me to do about it?” he drawled. “Cant fetch your medicinehad a pint with Dad. Its Saturday! Match is on. Oh, Mum wants a word.”
His mothers voice cut in. “Sophie! A womans duty is to her menfed, warm, and undisturbed! And what do you do? Fall ill! A pill and thats it?”
Sophies mother snatched the phone. “Margaret, is your son *infirm*? What sort of man cant care for his wife? Too busy drinking to fetch medicine? Pathetic!”
“Dont be daft! Men are *men*! The boys left to spare her the trouble!” Margaret huffed. “High-maintenance, that one. Healthy as a horse, just lazy! Neglecting her family! But *Ill* look after my boys. *Your* daughters a failure!”
Sophies mother hung up, seething. “Love, is this really what you want?”
Then James messaged:
*”Soph, send money? Spent my last on Archies clubs and clothes. Skint till payday.”*
*”Ive covered rent and groceries all month!”* she fired back.
*”Your flat, your problem. Hurry upIm at the shops!”*
*”No. Spent it on medicine.”*
*”What? Ask your parents, then!”*
*”Ask yours.”*
*”Cantshell ask where my wages went.”*
*”So will I.”*
*”Im a man! I dont answer to you *or* her! Send it NOW!”*
*”No.”*
The replies flooded in*selfish, ungrateful, rotten wife and mother*. Sophie finally told her mother, “I dont need him anymore.”
All night, James and Margaret bombarded her with rage. She muted them.
Sunday morning, he called.
“Soph, were staying at Mums. *She* loves us. Shouldve listened when she said youd be a rubbish mother. Youre *nothing*.” Click.
“Good riddance!” Her father studied her. “Well?”
“Only one thing left to do.”
Her father left abruptly, returning later with new keys. “Yours. Toss those.”
“What?”
“Changed your locks. Packed James and Archies thingsdropped them at Margarets. Stay with us awhile. And leave your phone be.”
Her mother hummed, relieved. Theyd waited for this.
Sophie filed for divorce. The names hurled at her*fool, homewrecker, heartless, ungrateful*stung, but for the first time in years, she was happy.
It was quickno shared children, no joint assets. James had moved Archie in to dodge child support, never considering Sophies flat wasnt his, nor the boys hostility.
Now James lived with his mother, his spending monitored, chores enforced. Three men under one roofharder than one.
Sophie? She bought a carno more waiting in the rain.
At twenty-seven, after such a trial? Only one thing to do: love herself.
