He eats enough for three, yet thinks only of himself I didnt marry a husbandI adopted a human dustbin.
I always thought fridge locks were a jokeone of those absurd internet memes. Then I saw one with my own eyes: a sturdy padlock with a tiny key, hanging in a hardware shop. I stood there, staring, and for the first time, seriously considered buying it. Not to keep food safe from the kids or burglars. From my own husband.
My name is Emily, Im thirty, and I live in Manchester with my husband, James, and our daughter. I work hard, rushing around like a headless chicken, as we say here. But despite the chaos, what exhausts me most isnt my job or my childits the man I share my home with. James sees nothing but his plate. He eats. Constantly. Without restraint, without thought, without guilt.
I come home tired, knowing theres food in the fridgea bit of roast, some cheese, maybe yoghurt for our daughter. But when I open the door, its empty. Not just nibbled atcompletely gone. Silently, without a word, hes devoured it all. Overnight. Sausages, cheddar, even the raspberries I bought for our girlvanished, as if swallowed by a black hole.
The other day, I bought strawberries for her. You know how much they cost out of season? But she saw them at the market and begged. I couldnt say no. At home, she ate them slowly, savouring every bite. I saved some for the next day, tucked safely in the fridge. By morning, the bowl was empty. Hed eaten every last one. And he had the nerve to laugh: «Just buy more! Weve got the money, whats the big deal?»
The big deal, James, is that you never think! Not about our daughter, not about me! You didnt ask, you didnt considerjust gobbled it down like it was yours by right. And Im left feeling like a servant, always shopping, always cooking. You polished off the last slice of hamso what? No remorse, no effort to make it up.
His mother spoiled him rotten, piling his plate sky-high since childhood. Giant portions, treats on demand. Hes tall, used to be athletic, but the habits stuck. Me? Ive always believed in moderation. Im raising our daughter the same wayno excess, just mindfulness. Yet with him, shes learning the opposite: grab everything, now.
Its not about the money. Were comfortableI work in a design agency, hes in logistics, our salaries are steady. Its about respect. Thinking of others before yourself. See something? Ask who its for. Did your daughter want it? Did your wife set it aside? Is that so hard?
Now Im staring at the fridge again. Empty again. That same slow-burning anger rising in my chest. Ive had enough. I didnt marry to become a live-in caterer. I wanted to be a loved wife, a mother, a partner. Not a vending machine for a man who sees our home as just a plate and a sofa.
I told him: you dont live like a family man, you live like a bachelor with unlimited access to our fridge. He just shrugged: «Youre a rubbish housewife if the food never lasts. Proper wives always keep the cupboards stocked.» Really? Then why not replace me with a vending machine?
More and more, I wonder: maybe what I need isnt a lock for the fridge, but a key to my own life. A life where Im not just a servant. A life where my needs matter. A life where Im not just a wifebut a person whos heard, and respected.
In the end, love shouldnt mean emptying yourself to fill someone elses plate.
