**Diary Entry: A Turning Point**
The canteen queue snaked endlessly, but I clung to my tray, determined. Finally reaching the counter, I hurriedly ordered, “Three bowls of tomato soup, three plates of shepherd’s pie, and three glasses of squash, please.” Balancing it all was impossible. I glanced back at the table where my husband, James, and our ten-year-old son, Oliver, sat. Oliver, bless him, was too young to think of helping, but James—buried in his phone—didn’t even look up. I had to make two trips, enduring judgmental stares from other diners.
By the time I sat down, James had already pulled his soup closer. He took a sip and scowled. “Tomato? You know I prefer leek. Couldn’t you ask?”
Exhausted, I replied, “You could’ve come and chosen yourself. I’m not a mind reader.”
“Ridiculous! It’s not like we queued together. A simple question would’ve sufficed.”
I let it drop. Arguing was pointless. James was perpetually dissatisfied, and Oliver was starting to mimic him.
“Ugh, Mum, shepherd’s pie? I hate it,” Oliver whined.
“Our mother only thinks of herself,” James muttered, still scrolling, yet devouring the soup he’d just criticised.
“Eat what you’re given,” I hissed, glancing around to see if anyone overheard. The canteen was packed—holidaymakers rushing to breakfast before hitting the beach. I’d hoped we’d go as a family, but James would probably lounge in the room, grumbling about the walk. He’d complained endlessly since we arrived. Never mind that he’d refused to help plan the trip.
After breakfast, I cleared the trays alone—James and Oliver had already left. As I passed a neighbouring table, I overheard a well-dressed woman and her husband.
“Darling, which dessert would you like?” he asked warmly before joining the queue.
That small moment twisted something in me. Once, James had been like that—attentive, caring. We’d cooked together, dreamed together. When did it change? After Oliver was born, perhaps. Maternity leave made housework my “duty,” and returning to work didn’t shift the load. James expected perfection—yet never thanked me.
Outside, I caught up to them. “Shall we head to the beach?”
James rolled his eyes. “Another trek in this heat? Brilliant choice of resort, Emily.”
At the beach, James dumped his clothes and sprinted into the sea with Oliver, yelling, “Sort the sun loungers!”
Why was *I* sweating over it? But I obeyed—what else could I do?
Later, James left early. “Too hot,” he declared, abandoning us. Typical.
The holiday passed like this: me organising, him complaining. Even excursions weren’t safe from his gripes. By the end, I’d run myself ragged for nothing.
The night before departure, I packed while they slept.
“5 a.m. coach,” James had said. “*Don’t* forget anything.”
Last year, I’d left his razor behind—still a crime, apparently.
Exhausted but sleepless, I stepped onto the balcony. Cicadas hummed. The woman from earlier joined me, lighting a cigarette.
“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.
“Early start,” I said. “Packing alone, as usual.”
She heard the bitterness. “You’re young, Emily. Too young to be unappreciated.”
I confessed—James hadn’t always been this way.
“Neither was my husband,” she admitted. “We divorced. Two years apart taught him—and me—what mattered. Love yourself first. Your son’s learning to disrespect you. That *must* change.”
Her words lingered. Could I risk divorce? I had my own flat, my job. But the real question: could I keep living like this?
The next morning, I handed James the suitcases. “You’re the man—you handle them.”
Silence lasted the flight home. Then, I stopped cooking, cleaning, ironing. When James roared about wrinkled shirts, I shrugged. “Do it yourself.”
The explosion came when I left for an evening out—dressed up, smelling of perfume.
“No dinner? No clean shirts?” he raged.
“And what do *you* contribute?” I fired back. “We split the work, or we split *up*.”
The word—*divorce*—hung between us.
A year later, we returned to the seaside. Confident, I sat while James fetched our food. He’d learned. Because I’d finally learned my worth.
