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…

Author Emily TaylorReading 8 min

You know, after my divorce, I honestly thought Id never trust anyone again, Andrew was spinning an empty espresso cup between his fingers, his voice so wobbly that Sarah leaned in, involuntarily captivated by the heartbreak. Betrayal, its like someone hacks a piece off your soul, isnt it? He sighed dramatically. She left a scar thatll never quite heal. Thought Id be stuck, honestly, thought Id never bounce back

Andrew went on a while, painting vivid pictures of an ungrateful ex-wife, relentless heartbreak, the terror of a fresh start. Each word landed softly, like a pebble on Sarahs heart, and shed already started to imagine herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. Patch up his wounds. Prove that real happiness with her was still on the cards.

He brought up Max at their second date, right between sticky toffee pudding and the after-dinner coffee.

Ive got a son, actually. Hes seven. Stays with his mum, but the court said I have him every weekend.

Thats wonderful! Sarah beamed, already picturing blissful Saturday breakfasts, trips to the park, and low-key evenings in front of the telly. Shed be the mother figure every little boy deservesnever a replacement, of course, just a trusted companion.

Are you really sure you dont mind? Andrew gave her a look, half-cynical smile, which Sarah (naïvely) took for wounded suspicion. Loads of women run for the hills when they find out about the kid.

Im not loads of women, she replied with a flourish.

The first weekend with Max was like a village fete. Sarah made him fluffy blueberry pancakeshis favourite, per Andrews strict instructions. She gamely sat through maths homework, patiently explained fractions, washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, and made sure he was tucked in by nine.

You should have a rest, shed told Andrew one evening, spotting him sprawled on the sofa with the remote. Ive got it covered.

He noddedgratefully, or so she thought. Looking back, it was more like the nod of a lord, graciously accepting the tribute due.

As months turned into years, Sarah pressed on as a logistics manager, always out by eight, back by seven. Decent salary for London, but what covered two was stretched dreadfully thin by three.

Theyve mucked up at the site again, Andrew would say, tone grave as if relaying news of a national emergency. Clients pulled out. But a big jobs coming next month, promise you.

The mythical big job had hovered on the horizon for a year and a half: sometimes closer, sometimes further, never actually landing. But the bills rolled in like clockwork. Rent. Gas. Council tax. Milk and bread and school shoes for Max. School fees. Andrews support payments to his ex. Sarah paid it all. Quietly. She saved by taking leftovers to work, avoided taxis even in the rain. Salon appointments were a distant memory; she filed her nails at home and tried not to remember easier days.

In three years, Andrew gave her flowers three times. Each time, cheap supermarket roses from the stall at the Tube, drooping petals, snapped thornsno doubt two-for-one.

First time: an apology after he called her hysterical in front of Max. Second: after he flew off the handle at her friend dropping by unexpectedly. Third: as a peace offering when he forgot her birthday, stuck at his mates flat. Or perhaps just forgot full stop.

Andrew, I dont care about fancy gifts, she told him gently, picking her words carefully. But sometimes its nice to know Im on your mind. Even a card

His face clouded over instantly.

So its all about money for you, is it? Flashy presents? What about love?! What about everything Ive been through?

Thats not

You dont deserve it, he flung the words as if theyd scald her. After all I do for you, and youve got the gall to complain.

Sarah fell silent, as she always didit was simply easier that way. Easier to keep the peace, to breathe, to pretend things were normal.

Strangely enough, there was never any shortage of money for Andrews mates. Pints at the pub, football on Thursdays, the occasional nandos. Hed lurch home, cheerful, sweaty, reeking of lager and old tobacco, and collapse onto the bed, oblivious to Sarah still wide awake.

She told herselfthis is what love requires. Sacrifice. Patience. Hell change. Of course, hell change. She just needed to love harder, give more. Hed suffered enough, hadnt he?

Conversations about marriage became a running joke on a bed of eggshells.

Were perfectly happy, arent we? Why muck about with paperwork? Andrew flapped away the topic like a fly from his lager. After the hell I had with Laura, I need my space.

Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.

Youre pressuring me! Always pressuring me! Hed storm off, and the chat would disappear like a biscuit dunked too long in tea.

Sarah desperately wanted her own children. She was twenty-eight, her biological clock getting louder and more insistent by the month. Andrew, however, had no interest in second-time fatherhoodone child, in his book, was quite enough.

Then, one Saturday, she simply dared to ask for a day to herself.

The girls are having a get-together. I havent seen them in ages. Ill be home this evening.

Andrew looked at her like shed proposed running off to Australia.

And Max?

Hes your son. You can have a day together.

So youre abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I finally thought I could rest a bit?

Sarah blinked. And again. In three years, shed never left them alone. Never once asked for time off. She cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, did the laundry, all while holding down a proper job.

I just want to see my friends. A few hours Hes your son, Andrew, surely you can manage him for a day without me?

Youre supposed to love my child as much as you love me! Andrew suddenly barked. You live in my flat, eat my food, and now this attitude?!

His flat. His food. Sarah had paid the rent on that flat. Sarah bought the groceries out of her own pocket. Three years shed supported this man, who was now shouting at her for wanting a day with her mates.

She looked at Andrewtwisted face, throbbing vein, clenched fistsand at last she saw him clearly. Not a tragic victim of circumstance. Not a lost soul in need of rescue. Just a grown man whod mastered the art of mooching off someone elses kindness.

To Andrew, she was not a beloved partner, not even a future wife. She was a source of cash and unpaid domestic service. Nothing more.

When Andrew went off to drop Max at his mums, Sarah fetched her suitcase. Her hands were steady, her mind calmno shaking, no doubts. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of t-shirts. Jeans. Everything else could be replaced. Or simply wasnt worth bringing.

She didnt bother leaving a note. Whats the point in explaining yourself to someone who never listened?

The door closed quietly behind her, not with a theatrical slam, but with gentle finality.

The phone started ringing an hour later. Once, then again, then againa cacophony of calls and angry messages.

Sarah, where are you?! Whats going on?! I come back and youre not here! Whats this nonsense?! Wheres dinner? Am I supposed to starve? Absolute disgrace!

She listened to his ranting voicefull of rage, self-pity, righteous outrageand marvelled. Even now, Andrew only cared about himself. About his convenience. Who was going to cook for him now?

No sorry. No are you alright? Just how dare you.

She blocked his number. Blocked him on WhatsApp. Facebook, Instagram, everywhere she could. Wall built, finally.

Three years. Three years shed poured her soul into someone who only saw her as a resource. Someone who convinced her that self-sacrifice was loves truest form.

But thats not what love is. Love isnt about humiliation. It doesnt reduce a person to domestic help.

Sarah walked through the dusky streets of London, breathing easily for the first time in years. She made herself a promise: never again to confuse love with self-erasure. Never again to rescue those who prey on sympathy.

And, come hell or high water, to always choose herself. Only herself.

You Don’t Deserve It “I thought after my divorce I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew twisted an empty espresso cup in his hands, his voice breaking so believably that Kate instinctively leaned forward. “You know, when someone betrays you, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left me with scars I’ll never heal from. I honestly didn’t think I’d survive…” Andrew, sighing heavily, talked for quite a while. About his ex-wife who never valued him. About pain that never went away. About his fear of starting over. Every word landed on Kate’s heart like a warm pebble, and she was already picturing herself as the woman who would restore his faith in love. That together, they’d heal his wounds. That one day, he’d realize true happiness was only possible with her. Andrew only mentioned Max on their second date, somewhere between dessert and coffee… “I’ve got a son, actually—he’s seven. Lives with his mum, but he spends every weekend with me. Court order.” “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” Already, in her mind, she saw Saturday breakfasts for three, Sunday mornings in the park, cosy evenings in front of the telly. That little boy needed a woman’s warmth, a mother’s care. She’d become his second mum—not a replacement, of course, but a close, loving presence… “You’re really okay with it?” Andrew gave her an odd half-smile, which at the time Kate mistook for caution. “A lot of women bolt when they hear about a kid.” “I’m not like most women,” she said, proud. …Their first weekend with Max felt like a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently worked through his maths homework, explained things simply. She washed his dinosaur t-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should put your feet up,” she told Andrew once, catching him sprawled with the TV remote. “I can handle this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, she thought. Looking back, she realised it was the approving nod of someone getting exactly what they expected. …The months blurred into years. Kate worked as a manager at a logistics company, out the door by eight, back by seven. The London salary was decent. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “Another delay on site,” Andrew would announce as if bearing news of a national disaster. “Client’s backed out. But there’s a big contract coming—I promise.” For a year and a half, the big contract hovered on the horizon, always just out of reach. But the bills—rent, gas, council tax, groceries, child support for Max’s mum, new trainers for Max, school trips—those came without fail. Kate paid everything quietly. She cut back on lunches, packed leftovers, refused taxis in the rain. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—she filed her own nails, trying not to dwell on the things she used to afford. In three years, Andrew brought her flowers just three times. Kate remembered each sad little bouquet—cheap roses from the 24-hour stand outside the Tube, their heads already drooping, thorns snapped. Probably a special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her a drama queen in front of Max. The second followed a row, because her friend dropped round for tea unannounced. The third, a token after missing her birthday altogether—he’d lost track of time at the pub with his mates. Or just forgotten, plainly. “Andrew, I don’t care about expensive gifts,” she chose her words carefully, softly. “It’d just be nice to know I cross your mind sometimes. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “So you only care about money, is that it? Fancy things? Have you even thought about what I’ve been through? About love?” “That’s not what I—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After everything I do for you, all you do is moan.” Kate fell silent. She always did. Life was easier that way. Easier to breathe, easier to pretend nothing was wrong. Oddly enough, Andrew always found cash for pints with the lads. Bars, match nights, a café every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and smoke, flopping on the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She’d convince herself: this is normal. Love means sacrifice. Love is patience. He’d change. Surely he’d change. She’d give him more attention, more kindness, more love—he’d been through so much… …Talk of marriage turned into walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are, why spoil it with a bit of paper?” Andrew dismissed the subject as if swatting a bluebottle. “After what happened with Jess, I need time.” “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” “You’re pressuring me. You always do!” He’d storm off into another room, conversation dead. Kate longed for children of her own—her biological clock was ticking louder every month. But Andrew refused—he already had a son, and in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday, all she’d asked for was a single day. Just one. “The girls invited me round. I haven’t seen them in ages. I’ll be home tonight.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d announced she was moving to Australia. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. Surely you can manage a day with your own son.” “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to relax?” Kate blinked, then blinked again. Not once, in three years, had she left them alone. Never asked for a single day off. She cooked, cleaned, helped with homework, did the laundry, all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Can’t you spend one day with him, without me?” “You’re supposed to love my son as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live under my roof, eat my food, and now you’re getting stroppy?!” His roof. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food out of her wages. She’d bankrolled a man who yelled at her for wanting a day with friends. For the first time, Kate saw Andrew plainly—not a broken soul in need of rescue, but a grown man who’d mastered the art of exploiting kindness. She was never his beloved, nor his future wife. She was a financial sponsor, a housemaid. Nothing more. When Andrew took Max back to his mum, Kate quietly packed her bag. Her hands never wavered—no trembling, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of shirts. Jeans. She could buy the rest later. None of it mattered. She didn’t bother with a note. What would be the point? The door closed quietly behind her, without drama… The calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, continuous ringtone making her phone buzz. “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re gone! How dare you?! Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to starve here? What bloody cheek!” She listened to his voice—angry, entitled, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, with her gone, Andrew was only worried about himself. About his inconvenience. Who would make dinner? Not a single “sorry.” Not a single “what happened.” Just “how dare you.” Kate blocked his number. Then his WhatsApp. Then every social network—everywhere he could reach her, she put up a wall. Three years. Three years with a man who never loved her. Who used her kindness as a consumable resource. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love meant. But love isn’t that. Love doesn’t shame you. Love doesn’t reduce a living human being to staff. As Kate walked through London in the evening, she felt lighter than she had in years. She promised herself: never again would she confuse love with self-obliteration. Never again save those who trade on pity. Always choose yourself. Only yourself.