He eats for three, yet thinks only of himself I swapped a fridge for a husband at home.
He eats for three, but nothing crosses his mind but his own hunger. Im not a wifejust a walking pantry.
I used to think padlocked fridges were a joke, one of those absurd internet memes. Then I saw it with my own eyesa sturdy iron lock with a tiny key, right there in the hardware shop. I stood frozen, staring at it, and for the first time, I seriously wondered: *What if I bought one?* Not to protect the food from the kids, or from burglars. But from my own husband.
My name is Eleanor. Im thirty, living in Manchester with my husband and our daughter. I work myself ragged, running around like a headless chicken, as we say here. But despite all the chaos, what drains me most isnt my job or my childits the man I share a home with. My husband, James, sees nothing beyond his plate. He eats. Constantly. Without restraint, without thought, without remorse.
I come home exhausted, counting on the leftovers in the fridgea bit of roast, some cheese, maybe a yogurt for our little girl. But when I open the door, theres nothing. Not just picked atcompletely gone. Silently, without a word, hes devoured it all. Overnight. Sausages, cheddar, even the raspberries I bought for our daughtervanished, as if swallowed by a black hole.
The other day, I bought strawberries for her. Do you know how much they cost out of season? But she spotted them at the market and begged. I couldnt say no. At home, she savoured them so carefully, with such delight I set a few aside for the next day, tucked 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 moneywhats the big deal?”*
The *big deal*, James, is that you never *think*! Not about her, not about me! You didnt ask, you didnt pauseyou just wolfed it down like it was yours by right. And me? Im just the cook, forever shopping and slaving. You polished off the last of the hamso what? No guilt, no effort to make it right.
He was raised by a mother who stuffed him without limits. Enormous portions, treats on demand. Hes tall, used to be athletic, but the habits stuck. Me? Ive always believed in moderation. I try to raise our daughter that wayno excess, just mindfulness. But with him around, shes learning the opposite: take everything, take it now.
Its not about money. Were comfortableI work at a design firm, hes in logistics, our incomes are steady. Its about *respect*. Thinking of others before yourself. See something? Ask*who was this meant for?* Did your daughter want it? Did your wife set it aside? Is that really so hard?
Now I stand before the fridge again. Empty. Again. That slow, simmering fury rises in my chest. Ive had enough. I didnt marry to become a housekeeper. I wanted to be a loved woman, a mother, a partner. Not a food dispenser for a man who sees this house as nothing but a plate and a sofa.
I told him: *You dont live with a familyyou live like a bachelor, just with unlimited access to our fridge.* And he just shrugs. *”Youre a rubbish homemaker if the food doesnt last. A proper wife always keeps the cupboards stocked.”* Oh really? Then why not buy a washing machine and replace me 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. A life where Im not just a servant. A life where my wants matter to someone. A life where Im not just a wifebut a person whos heard. Whos *seen*.
