My Husband Only Thinks of Himself – He Eats Everything in Sight, Leaving Nothing Even for Our Son “Adam, where have the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. “I ate them, I fancied a snack,” he says. “Couldn’t you have saved just one for our son’s tea?” “You’re making a fuss over nothing. It’s not like you can’t buy bananas at the shop.” “Then pop out and get more, please.” “I’ve got the football match on – how can I go?” This is constant in our family: fromage frais, biscuits, apples – I even have to hide food or else our son might go hungry with a dad like this. We’ve been married for five years. Our son’s nearly two. We’re paying off our mortgage, so money’s tight. My husband claims he’s the breadwinner for getting us this house, but really, he just sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit, and my parents helped too. My mum says Adam is so selfish. I kind of agree. One time we were getting ready for a birthday do. I was cooking for guests, and there he was, hovering, emptying dishes. Worst was the cake – I left it on the balcony because there was no fridge space, brought it in to slice up, only to find there was just a bit of decorated chocolate left. Imagine how embarrassed I was. This happens all the time. Yes, he works, but surely he could think of others. His only excuse: “We’ll just buy more – don’t stress!” Fine, don’t care about me, but how can you not care about your own child? Especially when we don’t have lots of money and I’m trying to budget. We can eat a month’s worth of food in a week. “Why are you going on at him? He’s a man, let him eat. He earns the money. Don’t nag, just cook more,” his mum says, defending him. Funny thing is, no matter how much I cook, it’s never enough for him – he’ll eat everything. There’s no question of buying more with the mortgage, clothes and other bills to pay. In the end, I told my husband that if he did it again, I’d divorce him. We’ll split the flat and go our separate ways. He sulked, whined to his mum, and now my mother-in-law won’t even speak to me. But I honestly think I’m right. What would you do?

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 1

My husband only ever thinks about himself, Emily confessed, her words laced with frustration as she stood in the cramped kitchen of their modest flat in Birmingham. She glanced around, hands deep in the washing up, before turning sharply to face James, her husband.

James, where have the bananas gone? she asked, her patience perilously thin.

I ate them, he replied with a shrug, never once looking up from his phone. I fancied something sweet.

Well, couldnt you have left at least one for Olivers afternoon snack? Emily asked, her voice rising, unable to hide the irritation.

Oh, dont make a mountain out of a molehill, he scoffed. They sell bananas at the shop, you know.

Then why dont you head out and buy some?

James glanced at his watch, then at the telly. Ive got to leave for the football match in a minute! I cant go now, can I?

And so it went in the Harris household, day after day: the cheese, the biscuits, the applesnothing was off-limits to James. Emily found herself tucking treats away in cupboards out of her little boys reach, not to keep Oliver from them, but his own father.

Five years of marriage, and soon Oliver would turn two. Their finances were squeezed tightLondon prices and a mortgage theyd never stop paying off. James liked to parade around as the family provider because hed sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit on their place; conveniently forgetting how much Emilys parents had chipped in as well. Even her mum had whispered, You know, Emily, James is terribly self-centred. Emily had to admit, she found it harder and harder to disagree.

The worst of it came as Olivers birthday party approached. Emily was busy at the cooker, battling to get sandwiches made and sausage rolls in the ovena feast for the family and a few friends. James, meanwhile, darted in and out, snatching food from serving plates as if it were his last meal. Shed left the birthday cake in its box out on the chilly balcony, no space left inside the fridge. When she brought it in, all smiles and anticipation, her heart dropped: a chunk of decorated chocolate sponge was gone, as though mice had been at it. The mortification burned through her cheeks.

Its always like this, she confided to herself in the sleepless silence of the early mornings. Yes, James earned the wages, but that wasnt an excuse for selfishness. He always offered the same line: Well just pop back to the shop, Em, no big deal! But it was a big deal to herto scrimp and save on a tight budget, only for him to plough through their weeks shop in two days.

His mothers support didnt help. Oh, let the man eat, Emily! He works hard. Just cook a bit extra, Barbara insisted, brushing Emilys concerns aside without a second thought.

It didnt matter how much she madeJames would eat the lot. There was no chance of buying more, not with their monthly repayments looming and Oliver outgrowing his clothes faster than she could keep up.

One stormy evening, standing at the sink and staring out at the rain, Emily turned to him. If you do this again, Jamesif you ignore everyone else in this familyI swear Ill file for divorce. Well split the flat and live our own lives. He was silent for a moment before huffing away to complain to his mum. Now, Barbara wouldnt even answer Emilys calls.

But alone with her thoughts, Emily could only cling to her conviction, her voice no longer wavering. Was she right to fight for their son, for herself? Was she wrong to demand something as simple as consideration? Her heart thudded, echoing the storm outsideasking, pleading for an answer.

“Come on then, Rusty…” muttered Val as he straightened the homemade lead of old rope. He zipped up his jacket to his chin and shivered—it was a particularly nasty February, sleet hammering down and the wind cutting right through him. Rusty—a faded ginger mongrel with one milky, blind eye—had come into Val’s life a year ago. He’d been finishing a night shift at the factory and seen the battered, starving dog by the bins with a clouded left eye. The shout set Val’s nerves on edge. He recognised the voice—Sean “Scarface”, the local twenty-five-year-old “hard man”. Three spotty teenagers hung around with him—his “crew”. “We’re taking a stroll,” Val answered shortly, gaze fixed on the icy ground. “Oi, mate, you pay your dog-walking tax for that freak?” one of the lads jeered, cackling. “Look at him—proper ugly, his eye’s all mashed up!” A stone flew, hitting Rusty in the ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed close to Val’s leg. “Get lost,” Val said quietly, steel in his tone. “Oh! Gramps found his voice!” Sean sauntered closer. “Don’t forget whose patch this is. Dogs walk here with my say-so.” Val tensed. The army had taught him to deal with problems swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary retired mechanic who didn’t want trouble. “Let’s go, Rusty,” he muttered, turning for home. “Yeah, run along! Next time your mutt’s a goner!” Sean yelled after him. All night, Val replayed the scene in his mind. The next day, wet snow fell. Val delayed the walk, but Rusty waited by the door, so devoted that Val gave in at last. “All right, all right—make it quick,” he grumbled. They stuck to quieter paths—but there was no sign of Sean’s lot, likely hiding from the foul weather. Val relaxed, until Rusty suddenly stopped by the deserted boiler house. The old dog pricked his one ear, sniffing the air. “What’s up, old boy?” Rusty whimpered, pulling towards the derelict building. Strange sounds drifted out—sobs, or moans, hard to tell in the howling wind. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called. No reply—just the wind. Rusty strained forward, anxiety shining in his lone good eye. “What is it? What is it, boy?” Then Val heard it, clear as anything—a child’s voice: “Help me!” Heart pounding, Val unclipped the lead and followed Rusty in. In the wrecked boiler room, behind a mound of bricks, lay a boy of about twelve—bloody-faced, split-lipped, clothes torn. “Oh God!” Val dropped beside him. “What happened?” “Mr Valentine?” The boy squinted up. Val recognised him—Andy Mason, the shy lad from next door. “Andy! What is it?” “Sean and his gang… wanted money off Mum. I said I’d tell. They caught me…” “How long have you been here?” “Since this morning. It’s so cold.” Val stripped off his jacket and wrapped the boy up. Rusty curled close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand up, Andy?” “My leg hurts—think it’s broken.” Val gently checked—yes, broken, and who knows what else. “Got a phone?” “They took it.” Val dug out his ancient Nokia and dialed 999. Paramedics would be there in thirty minutes. “Hang on, son—the ambulance is coming.” “What if Sean finds out I survived?” Andy whispered, panic rising. “He said he’d finish me…” “He won’t,” Val said firmly. “He’ll never touch you again.” The boy stared, surprised. “But you walked away yesterday.” “That was different—just me and Rusty. Now…” He trailed off. What was there to explain? How thirty years ago he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? How Afghanistan taught him: a real man never abandons a hurt child? The ambulance came fast; Andy was whisked to hospital. Val, left at the ruins with Rusty, pondered. That evening Andy’s mum, Mrs Mason, came round in tears, thanking Val over and over. “The doctors said one more hour alone, he might have died! You saved his life, Mr Valentine!” “Not me—Rusty found him,” Val replied, stroking the dog’s head. “But what’ll happen now?” Mrs Mason looked fearfully at the door. “Sean won’t stop. The police say they have no proof without witnesses.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He didn’t sleep; worry gnawed at him. How could he protect Andy? Or every other child bullied by that gang? By morning, he knew. He put on his old army uniform—parade dress, medals and all. Checked the mirror—not young, but still a soldier. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.” Sean’s crew lounged by the shop as usual, mocking as Val approached. “Oi! Looks like Remembrance Day came early—look at Granda, what a hero!” Sean got up, sneering. “Clear off, pensioner. Your time’s over.” “My time’s just started,” Val said quietly, closing the gap. “What’s with the get-up?” “To serve my country. And protect kids from people like you.” Sean laughed. “What kids? What country, old man?” “Andy Mason—remember him?” Sean’s sneer faded. “Why should I remember losers?” “Because he’s the last child you’ll ever hurt here.” “Threatening me, granddad?” “A warning.” Sean stepped in, a flick-knife glinting in his hand. “I’ll show you who runs this place.” Val didn’t move an inch. The army never really leaves you. “The law runs things here.” “What law? Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience did.” That’s when Rusty, who’d been still as a statue, suddenly bristled. A low, menacing growl rumbled from his throat. “And your mutt—” “My dog’s a veteran,” Val cut in. “Afghanistan. Bomb detection. He can sniff out scum with one look.” It was a lie—Rusty was just a mongrel—but Val delivered it so convincingly, everyone believed it. Even Rusty straightened up, baring his teeth. “He found twenty militants in Afghanistan. Brought every one in alive. Think he can handle one junkie?” Sean backed off; his mates froze behind him. “Listen up,” Val stated, stepping forward. “From now on, every yard, every night—I walk these streets. Me and my dog. Any trouble, we’ll find it. And then…” He left it hanging. “You trying to scare me, old man? I could—” “Go on then, call for help. But I’ve got connections—real ones. Prison’s full of mates who owe me favours.” Another lie, but Val’s steel convinced them. “Name’s Valentine—Val Afghan, they call me. Don’t touch the kids again.” Val turned and walked away. Rusty trotted at his side, tail held like a flag. Silence followed them down the street. Three days passed. Sean and his crew were nowhere to be seen. Val truly did patrol the streets daily. Rusty kept close—proud and serious. Andy was discharged a week later, limping but on the mend. He visited that day. “Mr Valentine—can I help with your rounds?” he asked. “I could be your deputy.” “Talk to your mum first, Andy. But I’d be honoured.” Mrs Mason agreed. She was only glad her son had someone to look up to. So every evening, neighbours spotted a curious team—a grandad in uniform, a boy, and a scruffy old ginger dog. Rusty became beloved, even by mums who’d normally shoo away strays. There was something special—noble—about him. Val told the kids tales of the army, of loyalty, of courage. They listened wide-eyed. One night, as they walked home, Andy asked: “Were you ever scared, Mr Valentine?” “I was,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not being quick enough. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Rusty. “When I’m grown-up, I’ll help you. I’ll have a dog just like Rusty.” “You will,” Val smiled. “Absolutely.” Rusty’s tail wagged. Everyone in the area knew him now. “That’s Valentine’s dog. He can spot a hero from a scoundrel,” they said. And Rusty wore the role with pride—no longer just a mongrel, but a defender.

Natalie, You’ve Been Gone Five Years—You Never Cared How I Was or What Became of Me Natalie and Ben had lived together for over five years. Ben wasn’t rolling in money—he was just an ordinary labourer earning a modest wage. Natalie always dreamed of a comfortable, or better yet, luxurious life, so whenever she met someone wealthier than her husband, she was secretly thrilled. Then one day, Natalie’s luck seemed to change—she was noticed by a wealthy businessman who promised her the world. Taken in by his smooth talk, she left her struggling husband to start a new, glamorous life. Ben was shattered by his wife’s decision. He begged her to stay, promising to work harder, switch jobs, make more money—anything to keep her happy. But Natalie remained firm. She was enchanted with visions of sailing on white yachts and shopping in Europe’s finest boutiques—things her poor husband could never provide. No vow of love or grand promise could sway her. Five years later, at thirty-two, Natalie’s rich benefactor lost interest in her—he was now surrounded by younger, more enticing women. He told her she was too argumentative and demanding, and cast her aside. With nowhere to go in London, no work experience, and no means to support herself, Natalie decided to crawl back to her ex-husband. Convinced that his vow of everlasting love meant he would be waiting for her, she set out for their former home. As she approached the door, she heard a rustle inside. The door opened, and a stranger holding a small girl appeared. “Darling, I’ve told you before not to open the door on your own,” the woman said to the girl in her arms. Then she turned to Natalie, “Can I help you?” Natalie stood frozen on the doorstep. “I’m looking for Ben. Is he home?” she stammered, lost for words. “Ben, there’s someone here for you! What’s your name?” called the stranger, then glanced back at their visitor. “Natalie!” Ben exclaimed in surprise when he appeared. Turning to the woman, he said, “Sweetheart, go back inside. I need to talk for a minute.” “Who was that woman?” Natalie asked, staring after the young woman with her daughter. “That’s my wife, Olivia, and in her arms is our daughter, Maddy,” Ben replied. “When did you get married? You have a daughter? Ben, you swore eternal love to me—you promised you’d never love anyone as much as you loved me!” “So many years have passed since that day! At first, I was heartbroken, but then I realised life goes on after you. Then I met Olivia—and I fell in love. She made me happy. She gave me a daughter.” “And what about me?” “Natalie, you’ve been gone for five years, and you never once cared how I was or what became of me. You left for someone else’s money, thinking only of comfort and a wealthy life. Maybe we were never rich, but what you did can’t be justified. Now you come back? What did you expect—that I’d be here waiting for you all this time?” “I was foolish! I love you!” “Natalie, enough of this charade. Please just go—I don’t need you and I don’t want to see you. Your fancy man threw you out so now you come crawling back? Honestly, it’s disgusting. Just go.” Natalie broke down in bitter tears, devastated that no one wanted her, while Ben was finally glad he’d managed to forget her and, in his own way, get his revenge.