UNGRATEFUL

**The Ungrateful**

“Emily, we’re starving! Stop lying around!” Her husbands irritated voice cut through the fog of her aching head. Her throat burned, her nose was blocked, and every movement felt like wading through cotton. No surpriseshe was ill.

All week had been sweltering, but yesterday evening brought sleet and rain. Spring in England. No taxis were availablehardly a shock in such weatherso shed squeezed onto a packed bus after waiting half an hour. Then a long walk home in the downpour. Shed asked Edward to pick her up on his way.

“Luv, I took Oliver to Mums. Well be late,” hed said.

As usual.

By the time Emily stumbled home, soaked and freezing, it was late. Now, 8 a.m. on a Saturday, she croaked, “Ed, fetch the thermometer, please?”

“What? Youre ill?” Edward sounded baffled. “But what about breakfast?”

“Could you manage yourselves?”

“What, *ourselves*?” His voice sharpened. “What about Ollie?”

“Hes ten! And youre a grown man. Make scrambled eggs? Let him helpI taught him.”

“You taught *him* to cook?” Edward spluttered.

“Yes. Why not? Hes glued to his phone all day. Wont lift a finger.”

“Have you lost your mind? Hes a *boy*! Men dont cookthats womens work!” Edward snapped. “Right, fine. Well go to Mums since youre useless. Back tomorrow.”

Within minutes, he and Oliver were gone.

Emily dragged herself up, found the thermometer, and put the kettle on. The beep confirmed her fever102°F. She swallowed medicine and slumped back into bed.

Later, her phone woke her. Her mother, Margaret:

“Em, why havent you called? I was worried!”

“Just a cold, Mum. Took pills and slept.”

“A *cold*? Wheres Edward? At his mothers again?”

“Gone with Oliver. Didnt want to catch it.”

Her mother snorted. “More like didnt want to lift a finger. Lie still. Your dads fetching you.”

Emily weakly packed her laptop and waited. When her father, Henry, arrived, he clutched his chest theatrically.

“Dad! Whats wrong?”

“Bloody hell, girl! You look like death!” He steadied her. “Skin and bones. No wonder your mothers furious.”

At her parents, warmth, food, and care eased her fever by evening. She called Edward to say she wasnt home.

“What dyou want? Cant bring medicinehad a pint with Dad. Its Saturday! Footballs on. Oh, Mum wants a word.”

“Emily!” Her mother-in-law, Beatrice, shrilled. “A wife doesnt *neglect* her men! Keep them fed, warm, and undisturbed! Swallowing a pill isnt *effort*!”

Margaret snatched the phone. “Beatrice, is your son infirm? Or just *useless*?”

“Men are *men*! Your daughters lazymy boys left to *spare* her!”

Margaret hung up, seething. “Em, why endure this?”

Then Edward texted: *Send money. Spent my wages on Ollies clubs and clothes.*

Emily stared. *I paid rent and groceries all month. Fair?*

*Your flat, your problem. Send cash nowIm shopping.*

*No. Spent it on medicine.*

*Ask your parents then.*

*Ask your mother.*

*Shell ask where my wages went!*

*So will I.*

*Im a manI dont answer to you!*

*No money.*

The backlash was swift: *Selfish, ungrateful, rubbish wife!*

Sunday morning, Edward called. “Were staying with Mum. She *cares*. Shouldve listened when she doubted youd be a proper mother.”

Margaret squeezed her hand. “Well?”

“Divorce,” Emily whispered. It hurtbut felt *right*.

Her father returned midday, tossing her new keys. “Changed your locks. Packed their things. Stay here awhile.”

On the kitchen radio, Margaret hummed. Theyd *waited* for this.

The divorce was quickno shared children, no joint assets. Edward had moved Oliver in to dodge child support, never consulting Emily. The boy had made her life hell, and Edward forgot *everything*: her flat, her money, *her*.

Now? He lived with his mother, pinching pennies.

And Emily? At 27, she bought a carto never freeze at a bus stop again.

What else does a woman do after a wretched marriage?

Simple. She learns to love *herself*.