**Diary Entry: The Unappreciated**
I woke up with a pounding headache, my throat raw and my nose blocked. Every muscle ached as if I’d run a marathon. No wonder I was ill. The weather had been sweltering all week, then yesterday evening it turned to sleettypical British spring. Couldnt get a cab in that mess, so I had to cram onto a packed bus after waiting half an hour in the cold. Then a long walk home in the rain.
Id asked my husband, David, to pick me up on his way back, but hed texted: *”Emily, Archie and I popped round to Mums. Be late.”* As usual.
By the time I stumbled in, I was soaked and shivering.
Eight AM. Saturday.
“David, could you fetch the thermometer?” I croaked.
“What? Youre ill?” He sounded more annoyed than concerned. “What about breakfast?”
“Could you manage without me?”
“Manage? What about Archie?”
“The lads ten! And youre a grown man. Make scrambled eggshe can help. I taught him.”
“You taught *him* to cook?” David scoffed.
“Yes. Whats the issue? Hes glued to his phone all daywont lift a finger.”
“Are you mad? Hes a *boy*! Men dont cookthats *your* job!” David snapped. “Right, were off to Mums. Clearly, you cant be bothered with us. Well be back Sunday.”
Within minutes, he and Archie were gone.
I dragged myself up, found the thermometer, and put the kettle on. *When did this happen?* I wondered. When did David stop caring if I was ill? When did *everything* become my duty?
The thermometer beeped: 102.6°F. I swallowed painkillers and crawled back to bed.
Later, Mum called. “Emily, why havent you rung? I was worried!”
“Just a bit poorly. Took meds and slept.”
“Poorly, my foot! Wheres David? At his mothers again?”
“Gone with Archie. Didnt want to catch it.”
“More like didnt want to lift a finger!” Mum huffed. “Stay put. Dads fetching you.”
Dad gasped when he saw me. “Bloody hell, girl! You look like death warmed up.”
At their house, it was warm, safe, and full of love. Mum fussed over me, and by evening, I felt steadier.
I called David to say I wasnt home. He answered lazily, “What dyou want? Cant bring medshad a pint with Dad. Oh, Mum wants a word.”
His mothers shrill voice cut in. “Emily! A woman doesnt *neglect* her men! They need feeding, warmth, and peace! And youlying about, swallowing pills!”
Mum snatched the phone. “Katherine, is your son *disabled*? Cant he care for his wife? Too busy drinking to buy medicine?”
“Dont be absurd! Men are *men*!” Katherine spluttered.
David texted later: *”Need money. Spent my wages on Archies clubs. Transfer some?”*
I blinked. *Id* paid all the bills and groceries.
*”No. Spent mine on medicine.”*
*”Ask your parents then!”* he shot back.
*”Ask yours.”*
*”Shell ask where my pay went!”*
*”So will I.”*
*”Im a manI dont *account* for my spending!”*
Sunday morning, David called, smug. “Were staying at Mums. *She* loves us properly. Shouldve listened when she said youd be a rubbish mother.”
Dad handed me new keys that afternoon. “Changed your locks. Packed their things and dropped them at Katherines. Stay here awhile.”
Mum hummed, vindicated. Theyd waited for me to see the truth.
The divorce was quickno shared children, no joint assets. Just Davids shock when the court ruled *he* owed *me*.
Now, he and Archie live with Katherine, who nags them about chores. Three men under one roofserves them right.
And me? At 27, with a new car (no more buses in the rain), Ive learned the best lesson:
Love yourself first.
*Journal entry, 15th March*
