UNGRATEFUL

**The Ungrateful**

This morning, I woke up feeling like death. My head was pounding, my throat was raw, and my nose was completely blocked. Every muscle ached as if Id been run over. No surprise, reallyafter a week of sweltering heat, yesterdays sudden sleet and rain had left me drenched and freezing on the long trudge home.

“Emma, we’re starving! Stop lying around!” Marks irritated voice cut through my fog.

I tried to sit up, but my limbs were useless. Id begged him to pick me up from work yesterday, but of course, hed been too busy. “Em, we swung by Mums. Be back late,” hed said. Typical.

Now, groggy and feverish, I managed to croak, “Can you grab the thermometer?”

“What? Youre actually ill?” Mark sounded almost offended. “What about breakfast?”

“Could you manage something yourselves?” I whispered.

He scoffed. “Ourselves? What about Jack?”

“The boys tenand youre a grown man. Make scrambled eggs. He knows how. I taught him.”

“You taught him to cook?” Marks voice was dripping with disbelief.

“Yes. Whats the issue? He spends all day on his phonemight as well learn something useful.”

“Have you lost your mind? Hes a lad! Men dont cookthats womens work!” Mark snapped. “Fine. Well go to Mums. Clearly, you cant be bothered with us.”

Without another word, he and Jack packed up and left.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, found the thermometer, and boiled the kettle. The digital beep confirmed it39.2°C. Swallowing painkillers, I collapsed back into bed.

Later, my phone buzzed. Mum. “Emma, why havent you called? I was worried!”

“Just a bit poorly. Took meds and slept,” I rasped.

“A bit poorly? Wheres Mark? At his mothers again?”

“Yep. Didnt want to catch my germs,” I muttered.

Mum snorted. “More like didnt want to lift a finger. Lie still. Dads coming to fetch you.”

When Dad arrived, he took one look at me and clutched his chest. “Bloody hell, loveyou look like a ghost!”

Back at my parents, Mum fussed over me like a drill sergeant with a mission. By evening, I felt marginally human.

I called Mark to let him know I wasnt home. His response? “What dyou want me to do? Cant bring medshad a pint with Dad. Oh, Mum wants a word.”

His mothers voice was sharp. “Emma, a wifes duty is to keep her men fed and happy, not laze about! Swallow a pill and get on with it!”

Before I could respond, Mum snatched the phone. “Oh, bless you, Carol. So a mans incapable of boiling an egg, is he? Pathetic.”

The call ended abruptly. Then Marks text arrived: *”Send money. Spent all mine on Jacks clubs and clothes.”*

I stared at the screen. *Id* covered rent, bills, and groceries all month.

*”No. Spent mine on medicine.”*

*”Ask your parents, then. Im at the shop.”*

*”Ask your mum.”*

*”Shell ask where my wages went.”*

*”So will I.”*

His reply was a torrent of insults: selfish, ungrateful, a terrible wife. I silenced my phone.

The next morning, he called. “Jack and I are staying at Mums. She actually cares. Shouldve listened when she said youd be a rubbish mother.”

Dad set a new keyring on the table. “Changed your locks. Packed their things. Theyre at Carols now.”

The divorce was swiftno shared assets, no children together. Just a year in, Mark had moved his son in without consulting me, expecting me to foot the bill. The court set things straight.

Now, Mark and Jack live under Carols thumb, learning to fend for themselves.

And me? I bought a carno more waiting in the rain.

At 27, after a brutal divorce?

Im learning to love myself.