As Emily paid for the groceries, James lingered by the door, hands in his pockets. When she started packing the bags, he stepped outside entirely. Emily walked out of the shop and approached James, who was lighting a cigarette.
“James, take the bags,” she asked, handing her husband two heavy shopping bags.
James looked at her as if she’d asked him to commit a crime. “What’s your problem?” he demanded, bewildered.
Emily froze, unsure what to say. What kind of question was that? A man was supposed to help, wasn’t he? It felt wrong—her struggling with the weight while he strolled along carefree.
“They’re heavy,” she replied quietly.
“So?” James resisted, chin tilted stubbornly.
He could see her temper rising but refused to budge on principle. Quickening his pace, he left her behind, smirking. *Take the bags? Like I’m some bloody servant?* *I’m a man—I decide what I carry! Fine, let her lug them. She won’t collapse from it.* Today, he was in the mood to put her in her place.
“James, where are you going? Take the bags!” Emily called after him, voice cracking.
The bags *were* heavy—James knew that. He’d tossed most of the items into the trolley himself. The flat wasn’t far—only a five-minute walk. But weighed down like this, every step dragged.
Emily walked home fighting tears. Maybe he was joking? Maybe he’d turn back? But no—his figure only shrank into the distance. She almost dropped the bags but forced herself forward, numb. By the time she reached the building, she collapsed onto the bench, too exhausted to move. The lump in her throat burned, but she swallowed it—*crying in public was shameful.* Yet she couldn’t ignore this. He’d not just hurt her—he’d *humiliated* her. And all that tenderness before the wedding… He *knew* what he was doing.
“Hello, love!” A voice snapped her from her thoughts.
“Hello, Mrs. Dawson,” Emily murmured.
Mrs. Dawson—Maggie to friends—lived below and had been close with Emily’s late grandmother. Emily had known her since childhood, relying on her after Gran passed. With Mum remarried and living in Manchester, and Dad long gone, Maggie was all she had left.
Emily made a snap decision. “Here, let me carry these up for you,” she said, hoisting the bags again.
Inside Maggie’s flat, Emily left the groceries, insisting they were for her. When Maggie spotted the smoked mackerel, tinned peaches, and other treats—luxuries she couldn’t afford on her pension—her eyes watered. Emily’s cheeks burned—*I should do this more often.*
After a teary goodbye kiss, Emily headed upstairs. The moment she stepped inside, James emerged from the kitchen, chewing lazily.
“Where’re the bags?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.
“What bags?” Emily matched his tone. “The ones you *helped* me carry?”
“Oh, come off it!” He forced a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re sulking?”
“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just made up my mind.”
James stiffened. He’d expected shouting, tears—not this icy stillness. It unnerved him.
“About what?”
“I don’t have a husband.” She exhaled. “Thought I married a man. Turns out I wed a *child.*”
“I don’t follow,” he snapped, feigning injury.
“What’s unclear?” Emily held his gaze. “I want a *man* for a husband. Seems *you* want a bloke for a wife.” A pause. “Then go find one.”
James’s face darkened, fists clenched. But Emily was already in the bedroom, tossing his clothes into a holdall.
He fought until the end, baffled. “This is daft! Over *bags*?”
“Hope you can carry your own,” she said coldly, shoving the bag at him.
Emily knew—this was just the start. If she backed down now, the disrespect would worsen. So she ended it, shutting the door behind him.
