As Katya settled the bill, Sergei slipped away. Just as she began to organise her shopping, he made his exit. Stepping outside, Katya stumbled upon Sergei, who was leisurely smoking a cigarette.

While Emily paid at the till, George drifted away. As she began stacking groceries into bags, he slipped out entirely. Stepping into the crisp autumn air, Emily found George leaning against a lamppost, puffing on a cigarette.

“George, take the bags, wont you?” she asked, holding out two heavy shopping sacks.

He stared as if shed asked him to commit a crime. “And youll do what, then?”

Emily blinked. What did he mean by that? Shouldnt a man help naturally? It felt absurdher arms straining while he walked free-handed, whistling.

“Theyre heavy,” she said.
“So?” George scoffed, digging in his heels.

He saw her frustration but refused on principle. Striding ahead, he left her behind. *Carry the bags? Like some pack mule? Im no servant. Let her manageshe wont collapse.* Tonight, he fancied putting her in her place.

“George! Where are you going? Take them!” Her voice trembled.

The bags *were* heavyhed stuffed them himself. The flat was only five minutes away, but with the weight, it felt endless. Emily trudged on, fighting tears. She half-expected him to turn back, but he didnt. At the doorstep, she slumped onto the bench, exhausted. Crying in public? Unthinkable. But swallowing this? No. Hed humiliated her deliberately. The man who once doted on her now took pleasure in this.

“Alright, love?” Mrs. Thompsons voice snapped her back.
“Oh, hullo.” Emily forced a smile.

Mrs. ThompsonMargaretlived downstairs. Shed been like family since Emilys gran passed. With her mother in Manchester and her father long absent, Margaret was all she had.

Without hesitation, Emily handed her the shopping. Margarets pension was tight, and Emily loved spoiling her with treats.
“Come on, lets get these upstairs,” she said, hefting the bags again.

In Margarets kitchen, she unpacked tinned salmon, custard creams, and peaches in syrupluxuries the old woman rarely afforded. Margarets eyes welled up, and Emily felt a pang of guilt for not doing this more often. A quick peck on the cheek, then she headed upstairs.

George was in the kitchen, mouth full of biscuits.
“Wheres the shopping?” he asked casually, as though nothing had happened.
“What shopping?” Emily matched his tone. “The ones you helped carry?”
“Dont be daft.” He grinned weakly. “Youre not still cross?”
“No,” she said calmly. “Just realised something.”

George stiffened. Hed expected shouting, tearsnot this icy clarity.
“Realised what?”
“I havent got a husband,” she sighed. “Thought I married a man. Turns out I married a child.”
“Dont talk rot.”
“Is it rot?” She met his gaze. “You want a wife who acts like a bloke. Well, seems you need a husband instead.”

His face flushed with rage, fists clenching. But Emily was already in the bedroom, stuffing his clothes into a suitcase.

George protested to the last. How could something so petty end things?
“Its just bags! Whats the fuss?” he whined as she tossed his socks in.
“Hope you can carry *your* luggage alone,” she said, ignoring him.

This was just the beginning. If she let this slide, the disrespect would grow. So she ended it, shutting the door firmly behind him.