He eats enough for three, yet thinks only of himself I didnt marry a man, I adopted a human fridge.
I used to think padlocks on fridges were just internet jokesone of those absurd memes people share for a laugh. Then I saw one in the hardware shop: a sturdy little lock with a tiny key. I stood there, staring, and for the first time, I genuinely considered it. Not to keep food safe from burglars or kids. From my own husband.
My names Poppy, Im thirty, and I live in Manchester with my husband and our daughter. I work hard, buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly, as they say here. But exhaustion doesnt come from my job or parentingits the man I share a home with. My husband, Oliver, sees nothing but his plate. He eats. Constantly. Without restraint, without guilt, without a second thought.
I come home knackered, counting on the leftovers for dinnermaybe a bit of roast, some cheese, a yoghurt for my daughter. But when I open the fridge, its bare. Not just nibbled atcompletely stripped. Silently, shamelessly, hes vacuumed it clean overnight. Sausages, cheddar, even the raspberries I bought for our girlgone, as if swallowed by a black hole.
The other day, I splurged on strawberries for her. You know what they cost off-season? But she spotted them at the shop and begged. I caved. She ate them so carefully, so joyfully I saved a few for the next day, tucked in the fridge. By morning, the bowl was empty. Hed scoffed the lot. And had the nerve to laugh: Just buy more! Weve got the dosh, whats the fuss?
The fuss, Oliver, is you never think. Not about her, not about me. You didnt ask, didnt hesitatejust hoovered it up like it was your birthright. And me? Im just the catering staff, endlessly shopping and prepping. You polished off the last sausage? Oh well. No remorse, no effort to make it right.
He was raised by a mum who fed him like a prize hogmassive portions, treats on tap. Hes tall, used to be sporty, but the habits stuck. Me? I believe in moderation. Im raising our girl that wayno greed, just sense. But with him around, shes learning the opposite: grab it all, now.
Its not about money. Were comfortableI work in design, hes in logistics, our salaries cover the groceries. Its about respect. Thinking of others first. See something? Ask who its for. Did your daughter want it? Did your wife set it aside? Is that so difficult?
Now Im staring at the fridge again. Empty again. That slow, simmering rage rising. Ive had enough. I didnt sign up to be a live-in snack dispenser. I wanted to be a wife, a mum, a partnernot a 24/7 buffet for a man who sees this house as just a plate and a sofa.
I told him: you dont live like a family man, you live like a bachelor with a fridge pass. He just shrugged: Youre a rubbish housewife if the cupboards arent stocked. Proper wives always have food ready. Oh really? Why not replace me with a vending machine while youre at it?
More and more, I wonder: maybe what I need isnt a padlock for the fridge, but a key to my own life. One where Im not just the help. One where someone cares what I want. One where Im not just a wifebut a person who matters.