He eats enough for three, yet thinks only of himself I replaced a fridge with a husband at home.
He eats enough for three, but cares only for his own belly. I am not a wife, merely a walking larder.
I once thought the idea of padlocks on fridges was a jokeone of those absurd images shared online. Then I saw it with my own eyes: an iron lock with a tiny key, displayed in a hardware shop. I stood there, staring, and for the first time, I seriously consideredshould I buy it? Not to guard against children or thieves, but against my own husband.
My name is Evelyn, I am thirty, and I live with my husband and daughter in Manchester. I work hard, bustling about like a whirlwind, as the saying goes. Yet for all my labour, what exhausts me most isnt my job or my child, but the man I share this house with. My husband, Arthur, sees nothing beyond his plate. He eats. Constantly. Without thought, without restraint, without shame.
I return home weary, knowing there should be something left for suppera bit of meat, a wedge of cheese, perhaps a yoghurt for my daughter. But when I open the fridge, theres nothing. Not just a little gonebut entirely bare. Silently, without a word, hes devoured it all. In the night. Sausages, cheese, even the raspberries I bought for my little girlvanished, 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 refuse. At home, she ate them with such delight, savouring each bite I set some aside 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: «Well, buy more! Weve the meanswhats the fuss?»
The fuss, Arthur, is that you never think! Not of your daughter, nor of me! You didnt ask, you didnt consideryou just consumed, as if it were your right. And I? Im only the cook, forever fetching and preparing. You finished the last sausageso what? No remorse, no effort to make amends.
He was raised by a mother who indulged him without limitheaping plates, endless sweets. Hes tall, was once athletic, but the habits stuck. Me? Ive always favoured moderation. I try to raise my daughter the sameno excess, but with care. Yet with her father, she learns the opposite: take all, take now.
Its not about money. We lack for nothingI work at a design firm, he in logistics, our wages steady. Its about respect. About thinking of others before yourself. See something? Ask who its meant for. Did your daughter want it? Had your wife set it aside? Is that so difficult?
Here I stand again before the fridge. Empty again. That same slow, smouldering anger rising in me. Ive had enough. I didnt marry to become a housekeeper. I wanted to be a loved woman, a mother, a partnernot a grocer to a man who sees this home as a plate and a sofa.
I told him: you dont live as a family, you live as a bachelorwith free rein over our larder. And he just shrugs: «Youre a poor housewife if the food doesnt last. A proper wife always keeps the pantry stocked.» Oh? Then why not replace the woman with a washing machine?
More and more, I wonder: perhaps what I need isnt a lock for the fridge, but a key to my own life. A life where Im not doomed to serve. A life where my wishes matter to someone. A life where Im not just a wife, but a person whos heardand respected.
