I once thought fridge locks were a joke—just some silly meme from the internet. Then I saw one in person: a sturdy metal lock with a tiny key, sitting on a shelf in the homewares aisle. I stood there staring, genuinely considering it for the first time—not to keep food safe from children or thieves, but from my own husband.
My name is Emily, I’m thirty, and I live in London with my husband and our daughter. I work hard, rushing about like a headless chicken, as we say here. But out of everything that wears me down—work, parenting—the most exhausting part is the man I share a roof with. My husband, James, notices nothing and no one but his own plate. He eats. Constantly. Without restraint, without thought, without shame.
I come home exhausted, counting on the dinner I’ve tucked away in the fridge—a bit of roast, some cheese, maybe yoghurt for our little girl. But when I open the door, it’s bare. Not just picked at—completely empty. Silently, without a word, he’s devoured it all overnight. Sausages, cheese, even the strawberries bought specially for our daughter—gone. Like a black hole.
Last week, I bought her raspberries. You know how expensive out-of-season berries are? But she spotted them in the shop and begged, and I couldn’t say no. At home, she savoured them slowly, with such delight… I set aside half for the next morning. Woke up—empty container. He’d polished them off, every last one. And then had the nerve to laugh: “Just go buy more! We’ve got the money, what’s the problem?”
The problem, James, is that you never think. Not about our daughter, not about me. You don’t ask, don’t consider—just eat, as if it’s your birthright. Meanwhile, I’m reduced to a short-order cook, scrambling to keep the cupboards stocked. You finish the last slice of pizza—so what? No guilt, no effort to make it right.
He grew up with a mum who piled his plate sky-high—second helpings, endless treats. He’s tall, was athletic once, but old habits stick. Me? I was raised to appreciate moderation and try to teach our girl the same—not greed, but gratitude. Yet with him as her example, it’s a losing battle: take everything, leave nothing.
It’s not about money. We’re comfortable—I work at a design firm, he’s in logistics, steady incomes. It’s about respect. About pausing to think beyond yourself. See food? Wonder who it’s for. Did your daughter ask? Did your wife set it aside? Is that really so hard?
Now I’m staring at the fridge again. Empty again. That familiar resentment simmers under my ribs. I’m tired. I didn’t marry to become a live-in caterer. I wanted to be a loved woman, a mother, a partner—not a grocery vending machine for a man who sees home as just a plate and a sofa.
I tell him: You don’t live with a family, you’re a bachelor with 24/7 fridge access. He just shrugs: “You’re a rubbish wife if the food runs out. Proper wives keep things stocked.” Oh really? Should I sign up to do your laundry while I’m at it?
More and more, I wonder—maybe it’s not a fridge lock I need, but the key to my own life. One where I’m not just service staff. One where my needs matter. One where I’m not just a wife, but a person who’s heard—and truly seen.
Sometimes the hungriest people aren’t the ones who empty the fridge, but those who never learn to feed their own kindness.
