While Emily was paying for the groceries, James stood to the side. By the time she began packing the bags, he had already stepped outside. Emily left the shop and approached James, who was smoking on the pavement.
“James, take the bags,” she asked, holding out two heavy shopping bags to her husband.
James looked at her as if she’d asked him to do something illegal, then said in disbelief, “Why don’t *you* take them?”
Emily froze, unsure how to answer. What did he mean, *why don’t you*? Wasn’t it obvious? A man should offer to carry the heavy bags, shouldn’t he? It felt wrong—her struggling with the weight while he strolled beside her as if they were empty.
“They’re heavy,” Emily replied.
“So?” James resisted, watching her frustration grow but refusing to give in on principle. He strode ahead, knowing she wouldn’t catch up. *”Take the bags”? What am I, her packhorse? Her lackey? I’m a man—I decide whether I carry them or not! Let her manage on her own—it won’t kill her,* he thought, smug in his stubbornness. Tonight, he was in the mood to put her in her place.
“James, where are you going? Take the bags!” Emily called after him, her voice trembling.
The bags *were* heavy—he knew, since he’d been the one piling groceries into the trolley. Their flat was only five minutes away, but every step weighed on her. Emily walked home, holding back tears. She kept hoping James would turn back, but he didn’t—just kept moving farther ahead. She considered dropping the bags right there, but on she went, numb with exhaustion. Reaching the building, she sank onto the bench outside, too drained to climb the stairs. Humiliation and weariness pressed down on her—she wouldn’t cry in public, but swallowing this hurt was impossible. He hadn’t just been thoughtless; he’d *chosen* to belittle her. And he used to be so attentive before they married…
“Hello, love!” A voice broke through her thoughts.
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson,” Emily replied.
Margaret Thompson—Mrs. Thompson to everyone—lived on the floor below and had been close with Emily’s late grandmother. Emily had known her since childhood, treating her like family. After her grandmother passed, Mrs. Thompson had stepped in whenever Emily struggled—her mother lived in another city with a new husband and children, and her father was long gone. Now, without hesitation, Emily decided to give the groceries to Mrs. Thompson. At least they wouldn’t go to waste. The pensioner rarely splurged on luxuries, and Emily often brought her little treats.
“Come on, Mrs. Thompson, I’ll walk you up,” she said, hefting the bags again.
Inside the flat, Emily left the groceries, insisting they were all for her. When Mrs. Thompson spotted the tinned salmon, peach preserves, and other indulgences she couldn’t afford, she grew so emotional that Emily felt guilty for not spoiling her more often. After a goodbye hug, Emily finally headed upstairs. The moment she stepped inside, James appeared from the kitchen, chewing on something.
“Where are the bags?” he asked, acting oblivious.
“What bags?” Emily matched his tone. “The ones you *helped* me carry?”
“Oh, come on!” He forced a laugh. “You’re not seriously upset, are you?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just drawn my conclusions.”
James stiffened. He’d expected shouting, tears—not this icy quiet that unnerved him more than any tantrum.
“What conclusions?”
“I don’t have a husband.” She sighed. “I thought I married a man. Turns out I married an idiot.”
“I don’t follow,” James protested, feigning hurt.
“What’s confusing?” Emily stared him down. “I want a husband who acts like one. You clearly want a wife who acts like *your* husband.” She paused. “Maybe you should find yourself a man, then.”
James’s face reddened with rage, fists clenching—but Emily was already in the bedroom, packing his things.
He fought until the end, refusing to leave. How could she throw everything away over *this*?
“We were fine! So what if you carried the bags? Big deal!” he ranted as she tossed his clothes into a holdall.
“Hopefully, you can carry your *own* bag,” she cut in coldly.
Emily knew this was just the start. If she let it slide, his disrespect would only grow worse. So she ended it there—shoving him out the door before he could protest again.
