“UNGRATEFUL”
“Sophie, we’re starving! Stop lazing about!” snapped her husband Toms voice right by her ear. Her head pounded, her throat burned, and her nose was completely blocked. When she tried to sit up, her body felt like jelly. No surpriseshe was properly ill.
All week had been sweltering, but yesterday evening, out of nowhere, it started sleeting. Typical British spring. She couldnt get a cabno shock there in that weatherso she had to take the bus home from work. Waited half an hour for one, only for it to be packed. She barely squeezed in, but at least she got a spot. Then a long walk from the stop, freezing and soaked.
Shed asked Tom to pick her up on his way.
“Soph, me and Jake stopped by Mums. Well be late,” hed said.
As usual.
By the time Sophie got home, it was late, and she was drenched.
Now it was 8 AM. Saturday.
“Tom, could you grab the thermometer, please?” she croaked.
“What? Youre ill?” He sounded shocked. “What about breakfast?”
“Could you two manage?” she asked weakly.
“Manage? What, on our own?” Tom scoffed. “What about Jake?”
“Hes ten! And youre a grown man. Make some scrambled eggs? Let your son help. Ive taught him howhes old enough.”
“You taught *him* to cook?” Tom nearly shouted.
“Yeah. Whats the issue? Hes glued to his phone all day, never lifts a finger.”
“Are you serious? Hes a *boy*! Men dont cookthats *your* job!” Tom was fuming now. “Right, fine. Well go to my parents if you cant be bothered. Well be back tomorrow.”
And just like that, he and Jake packed up and left.
Sophie dragged herself up, found the thermometer, put the kettle on, and just sat there.
*When did this happen? When did her husband stop being able to so much as make toast for her when she was sick? When did everything become her job?*
The thermometer beeped102.2°F.
She took some paracetamol and crawled back under the covers.
Her phone woke her later. Her mum.
“Sophie, love, why havent you called? I was worried sick,” fretted Mum.
“Just a bit poorly. Took meds and went back to sleep,” Sophie rasped.
“A *bit*? And wheres Tom? Off with Jake at his mothers again?” Mum grumbled.
“Yeah. Didnt want to catch it,” Sophie muttered.
“You *believe* that? Dont kid yourselfthey just couldnt be arsed to lift a finger!”
“Mum”
“Dont Mum me! I have every right to be cross. I didnt raise you to be some housemaid! Have you checked your temp?”
“Yeah. High this morning. Feels a bit better now, but Im exhausted.”
“Stay put. Your dads coming to fetch you. No one should be ill alone. Wait there.” Click.
Sophie weakly washed up, packed a few things, and was ready when Dad arrived.
“Blimey!” Dad clutched his chest when he saw her.
“What? Whats wrong?” Sophie panicked.
“Christ, you look like death warmed up!” He took her bag gently. “Come on, lean on me. Youre skin and bones, love. Your mums rightits like youre in servitude. No offence, but you look *awful*.”
Sophie didnt argue. Too tired.
At her parents, it was warm, cosy, and safe. Mum fussed over her, and by evening, Sophie felt slightly better.
She called Tom to say she wasnt home.
“What dyou want me to do about it?” he yawned. “Cant bring you medshad a few pints with Dad. Its Saturday, innit? Footballs on. Oh, Mum wants a word.”
“Sophie, *listen*,” her mother-in-law cut in sharply. “Youre a wife! You cant just *collapse* and leave your men hungry! A mans needs come firstfed, warm, and left in peace! And what do you do? Take a pill and *whinge*!”
Sophies mum snatched the phone.
“Margaret, is your son *disabled*? Or just useless? What kind of man cant so much as boil an egg for his sick wife? Too busy drinking, was he?”
“Hes a *family man*! Men are like thatyou know how it is,” Margaret huffed, caught off guard.
“Oh, *do* they? Real men, are they? Too busy with the match to care for their wives?” Mum shot back. “Three grown men under one roofgood luck with *that*!”
Sophie switched off the sound as Tom and his mum bombarded her with angry texts all night.
Sunday morning, Tom called.
“Soph, were staying at Mums. Unlike you, she actually *cares* about us. Shouldve listened when she said youd be a rubbish mother. Youre *selfish*.”
“Brilliant. Just brilliant,” Dad said, watching her over breakfast. “So?”
“Divorce,” Sophie said quietly, staring at her fluffy omelette. It hurt but shed decided.
Dad left abruptly. “Back latermight miss lunch.”
Mum smoothed her hair. “Take your meds, love. Rest. Youll heal.”
Sophie slept till noon. When she woke, Dad was back.
“Here. Toss these.” He dropped a new set of keys in her hand.
“What?”
“Changed the locks. Packed Tom and Jakes thingsdropped em at Margarets. Stay with us a while. And *dont* answer your phone.”
Mum hummed happily in the kitchen. Theyd waited for this.
Sophie filed for divorce.
The backlash was brutal”selfish,” “heartless,” “a failure.” But for the first time in years, she was *happy*.
It was quickno shared kids, no joint assets. Tom had moved Jake in a year ago to dodge child support, never telling Sophie. Never mind that she and Jake clashed, or that *her* flat was now crammed with his expenses. Tom forgot about *all* of it.
Too convenient, wasnt it?
But the court sorted it.
Now Tom and Jake live with Margaret, who *finally* has to manage three lazy men.
And Sophie?
She bought a carno more buses in the rain.
Whats a 27-year-old to do after a messy divorce?
Simple. *Herself.*
