He eats enough for three, but only thinks of himself I didnt marry a husbandI adopted a human fridge.
I used to think those photos of padlocks on fridges were just internet jokes. Then I saw one in a hardware shopa sturdy little lock with its own key. For the first time, I seriously considered buying it. Not to keep food safe from kids or thieves. From my own husband.
Im Sophie, 30, living in Manchester with my husband and our little girl. I work hard, running around like a headless chicken, as we say here. But what wears me out isnt my job or my daughterits the man I share a home with. My husband, James, sees nothing but his plate. He eats. Constantly. Without a second thought.
I come home exhausted, counting on leftovers for dinnermaybe some roast, a bit of cheese, or yogurt for our daughter. But when I open the fridge? Empty. Not just picked atcompletely gone. Silently, without a word, hes vacuumed it all up overnight. Sausages, cheddar, even the raspberries I bought for our girlvanished, like they never existed.
The other day, I splurged on strawberries for her. You know how pricey they are off-season? But she saw them at the market and begged. I couldnt say no. At home, she savored them so carefully, so happily I saved a few for the next day, tucked in the fridge. By morning? The bowl was empty. Hed eaten every last one. And had the nerve to laugh: Just buy more! Weve got the money, whats the big deal?
The big deal, James, is you never think! Not about her, not about me! You never ask, never pausejust devour like its your right. And Im just the chef-slash-shopper, always replenishing what youve scarfed down. Finished the last of the ham? No guilt, no effort to fix it.
His mum spoiled him rottenhuge portions, treats on demand. Hes tall, used to be sporty, but old habits stick. Me? I believe in moderation. Im raising our daughter that waymindful, not greedy. But with him around, shes learning the opposite: grab it all, now.
Its not about money. Were comfortableIm at a design firm, hes in logistics, steady incomes. Its about respect. Thinking of others first. See something tasty? Ask yourself: who was it 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 bubbling up. Ive had enough. I didnt marry to be a live-in caterer. I wanted to be a wife, a mum, a partnernot a vending machine for a man who treats this house like a takeaway and a couch.
I told him: you dont live like a family man, you live like a bachelor with an all-access pass to our groceries. He just shrugs: Bad housekeeping if the cupboards are bare. A good wife always keeps food stocked. Oh really? Maybe I should replace myself with a dishwasher while Im 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 a servant. One where someone cares what I want. One where Im not just a wifebut a person who matters.
