**”I Kicked My Husband Out Over a Chicken, and I Dont Regret a Thing”**
That day, I was at my wits end. All morning, Id been tidying the lounge, hanging laundry, picking up the kids toys, and scrubbing the floors. Finally, I peeked into the oventhe roast chicken with golden potatoes was nearly perfect, filling the kitchen with a scent so rich it made my head spin.
“Just ten more minutes,” I muttered, setting the timer before dashing to the loo to scrub the grout. Everything was going smoothly until the front door slammed.
“The kids must be home,” I thought. But on the doorstep stood my husband, Simon, who was supposed to be “at the garage” all morning.
“Blimey, that smells brilliant!” he cheered, rubbing his hands. “Your roast chicken always wins!”
“Call the kids for dinner,” I said, turning back to the sink.
A minute later, little bare feet thudded down the hallway, trainers flew into the entryway, and laughter erupted. Then came the shouting. I rushed out, still wearing rubber gloves.
“Whats going on?” I asked.
“I want a drumstick!” cried Emily, my ten-year-old.
“Me too!” piped up Oliver, my eight-year-old.
“There are two, arent there?” I said, frowning.
“No! Theres only one left!” Emily stamped her foot.
I stepped closer to the table. Half the chicken was gonejust the breast and a few lonely potatoes remained.
“Wheres your dad?”
“He left. Took half the chicken and just left,” Oliver grumbled.
I grabbed my phone and rang Simonno answer. Snatching the car keys, I stormed out, my blood boiling. Again! Hed helped himself to the best bits. But this time, it wasnt even for himselfit was for his mates. This wasnt just selfishness; it was betrayal.
By the village green, Simon sat on a bench with his friends, beers in hand, the chicken on his lap. They laughed, licked their fingers, feasting like kings.
“Not too heavy for you, is it?” I snapped, eyes blazing.
“Go home, well talk later,” Simon muttered, embarrassed in front of his mates.
“No, well talk now! You stole what I made for our children! Have you no shame? Its bad enough you always hog the best bits, but now youre feeding your friends with what isnt yours?”
“Piss off before I lose my temper,” he shot back, grabbing my wrist.
“What are you doing?” I yanked free. “Youre not just selfish, Simon, youre a thief. A thief who steals from his own kids to stuff your drunk mates!”
“Stop being dramatic, love,” he sneered, red-faced. “It was just this once.”
“Once? What about the strawberries? The posh chocolates from my mum that you demolished in a day? The barbecue where you left the kids burnt scraps while you gorged on the best cuts?”
I turned on my heel and marched home.
That night, when he returned, I stood by the window.
“You should see yourself,” Simon scoffed. “‘Divorced over a chicken.’ You belong on telly.”
“I want a divorce,” I said, icy. “You dont even get it. Its not about the chicken. Its about your greed, your rudeness, the fact you only ever think of yourself.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” he mocked.
“Your mums. The woman who taught you the best bits belong to you. Let her share with you now.”
He left, convinced I was bluffing. But the next day, I filed the papers. He slept at his mums.
Two weeks later, my phone rang.
“You were right,” sighed my ex-mother-in-law. “Hes eating me out of house and home. I buy a box of chocolates, take onethe rest vanish by nightfall. I thought you were exaggerating. But yesterday, he even took the last drop from the kettle without asking.”
“You want me to take him back?” I asked, stunned.
“No just needed to vent, I suppose.”
“Good luck, then. Ive moved on from that glutton. And you know what? Ive never breathed freer.”
**Lesson of the day: Love makes us tolerate much. But when selfishness rules the table, it chokes the soul of the home.**
