While Emily paid for the groceries, James lingered by the door. As she began packing the bags, he stepped outside. When she emerged from the shop, she found him leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand.
“James, take the bags, please,” Emily said, holding out two heavy shopping bags.
James stared at her as if shed asked him to commit a crime. “And what about you?” he shot back, baffled.
Emily faltered. What did he mean? A man should help without question. It was absurd for her to struggle with the weight while he walked empty-handed.
“Theyre heavy,” she insisted.
“So?” he retorted, unmoving.
He saw anger flicker in her eyes but refused to yield. Striding ahead, he left her behind, smirking. *”Carry the bags? What am I, a pack mule? Im a man. I decide what I do. Let her manageshe wont die!”* Tonight, he wanted to put her in her place.
“James, where are you going? Take the bags!” Emily called, voice cracking.
He knew exactly how heavy they werehed filled the trolley himself. The flat was only five minutes away, but with the weight, it might as well have been miles.
Emily trudged home, blinking back tears. She half-expected him to turn around and laugh it off, but he didnt. Her arms ached, but she kept moving, refusing to crumble. At the building entrance, she collapsed onto the bench, exhausted. Humiliation burned in her chest, but she swallowed itcrying in public was shameful. Yet this wasnt something she could ignore. He hadnt just slighted her; hed done it deliberately. The same man whod once treated her like a queen.
“Hello, Emily!” Mrs. Thompsons voice snapped her back to reality.
“Hello,” Emily replied, forcing a smile.
Mrs. Thompson, who lived one floor below, had been like family since Emilys grandmother passed. With her mother remarried and her father long gone, the older woman was all she had left. Without hesitation, Emily handed over the groceries. Mrs. Thompsons pension was tight, and Emily loved spoiling her with treats.
“Come on, let me help you upstairs,” Emily said, lifting the heavy bags again.
In Mrs. Thompsons kitchen, she unpacked the tinned salmon, pâté, and peaches in syrupluxuries the old woman rarely afforded. Tears welled in Mrs. Thompsons eyes, and Emily felt a pang of guilt for not doing this more often. They hugged goodbye, and Emily headed upstairs.
Inside, James was chewing loudly in the kitchen.
“Where are the bags?” he asked casually.
“What bags?” Emily replied flatly. “The ones you helped carry?”
“Oh, dont be dramatic,” he scoffed. “Youre really upset?”
