**Diary Entry – 5th March**
I used to think fridge locks were just a joke—something you’d see in an internet meme. Then I spotted one in a homeware shop: a proper steel padlock with a key. I stood there staring, and for the first time, it didn’t seem funny. Maybe I *should* buy it. Not to keep food from the kids or thieves, but from my own husband.
My name’s Emily Carter, I’m thirty, and I live in Manchester with my husband and daughter. I work hard, rushing about like a headless chicken, as we say here. But the thing that gets me isn’t the job or my little girl—it’s the man I share this house with. My husband, James, doesn’t notice anything or anyone beyond his own plate. He eats. Constantly. Without thought, without pause, without shame.
I come home exhausted, counting on the food I’d tucked away—a bit of chicken, some cheese, maybe yoghurt for my daughter. I open the fridge, and it’s bare. Not just picked at—*empty*. Silently, without a word, he’s eaten it all. Overnight. The sausages, the cheese, even the strawberries I bought for our girl—gone. Like it vanished into thin air.
Last week, I splurged on raspberries for her. You know how pricey out-of-season fruit is? But she saw them in the shop and asked so sweetly—I couldn’t say no. At home, she ate them slowly, savouring each one. I saved half for the next day, left the tub in the fridge. Woke up to an empty container. He’d eaten the lot. Every last berry. And then he laughed: “Just buy more if it’s a problem. We’ve got the money, haven’t we?”
That’s just it, James—you never *think*. Not about her, not about me. No “Was this hers?” No “Did someone else want this?” Just eat first, ask never. I’m less a wife and more a short-order cook, sprinting to restock what vanished overnight. You polish off the last bacon—and what then? No guilt, no effort to make it right.
He was raised by a mother who stuffed him like a Christmas goose—huge portions, endless treats. He’s tall, was athletic once, but habits stick. Me? I grew up learning moderation. I try to teach our daughter the same—to think before she takes. But with him, she sees the opposite: grab it all, *now*.
It’s not the money. We’re comfortable—I’m a graphic designer, he’s in logistics. It’s respect. It’s considering someone besides yourself. See something? *Think*: “Did my wife set this aside? Did my girl ask for it?” Is that so hard?
Now I’m staring at the fridge again. Empty again. That same simmering anger under my ribs. I’m tired. I didn’t marry to run a canteen. I wanted to be a partner, a mother, a *person*. Not a meal ticket for a man who sees this house as a 24-hour buffet with a sofa attached.
I tell him: “You don’t live *with* us; you live *off* us. A bachelor with full fridge privileges.” He just shrugs: “A proper wife keeps the kitchen stocked. My mum always did.” Right. Shall we get you a washing machine while we’re at it?
More and more, I wonder—maybe it’s not a lock the fridge needs, but a key to *my* life. One where I’m not just the help. Where what I want matters. Where I’m heard.
**Lesson today: Love shouldn’t mean vanishing portions of yourself to feed someone else’s carelessness.**
