My Husband Only Ever Thinks of Himself: He Eats Absolutely Everything—Not Even Our Child Gets Any Leftovers — “Adam, where have all the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. — “I ate them because I fancied them.” — “Couldn’t you at least have saved one for our son’s afternoon snack?” — “You’re making a fuss over nothing. It’s not like they don’t sell bananas in the shop.” — “Then go and buy some.” — “I’ve got the football match on—how can I go?” This is how it always is in our family: cheese, biscuits, apples—I even have to hide food because with a father like this, my son could go hungry. We’ve been married for five years. Our son is nearly two. We have a mortgage, so money’s tight. My husband believes he’s the provider—he gave us our home. But in reality, he only sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit; my parents helped too. My mum thinks Adam is a real egotist, and honestly, I kind of agree. One day we were preparing for a birthday party. I’m cooking for our guests, and he keeps wandering in and emptying the plates. The worst part: he got to the cake as well. I left it on the balcony since there was no room in the fridge. Brought it back to the kitchen to slice up—and saw all that was left was a piece of decorated chocolate. Imagine how embarrassed I was! This happens all the time. Yes, he earns money, but surely we can manage things sensibly and think about others. He always says, “Don’t worry! We’ll just buy more.” Okay, don’t care about me—but how can you not care about your own child? Especially when money’s tight and I have to make things last. In a week, we can go through a month’s worth of food. — “Why are you picking on him? He’s a man, let him eat. He earns the money. Instead of complaining, just cook more,” his mum defends him. But no matter how much you cook, he’ll never have enough—he eats everything. There’s no point in buying more, when we have a mortgage to pay, clothes and other household things to buy. Overall, I told my husband that if he does this one more time—I’m filing for divorce. We’ll split the flat, and each go our own way. He was offended and went running to his mum. Now my mother-in-law refuses to speak to me, but I think I’m right. What do you think?

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 3 minViews 1

My husband only ever thinks of himself. He polishes off all the food, not leaving anything, not even for our little one.

James, where have the bananas gone? I ask my husband.
I ate them, felt like having some, he replies.
Couldnt you have saved one for Olivers afternoon snack?
Oh, youre fussing over nothing. Its not like the shops have run out of bananas, he says.
Then go out and buy some more.
Ive got the football match on. How am I supposed to pop out now?

This is just how things go in our house all the time: the yoghurt, biscuits, apples. I even have to hide food, because with a father like this, my son could end up hungry.

Weve been married for five years. Our son is nearly two. Because weve got a mortgage, moneys tight. My husband seems to think hes the breadwinner just because he gave us a home. In truth, he sold his old studio flat and used that as a deposit, but my parents chipped in as well. My mum says James is an out-and-out selfish man. Im starting to see her point.

Not long ago, we were getting ready for a birthday party. I was busy in the kitchen sorting food for the guests and he kept hovering about, finishing off everything Id put out. The worst was when he got stuck into the birthday cake. Id left it out on the balcony since there wasnt enough space in the fridge. I brought it into the kitchen to cut for everyone, only to find hed already helped himself to a slice, hand-picked and decorated with chocolate. Just imagine how mortified I was.

It happens all the time. Yes, he does earn a living, but surely he could think of others and organise things fairly. But hes always got the same excuse: Well just buy more, dont worry! Fine, if he doesnt care about me, but how can he neglect his own child? Especially when we havent got money to burn and I have to carefully plan the weekly shop. By Thursday, weve usually eaten through what should last us all month.

Why are you having a go? Hes a grown man, let him eat. He brings in the money, his mother says in his defence. Stop moaning at him and just cook some more.

Its strange, though no matter how much I cook, it never seems to be enough for him. He eats everything in sight. Buying extra isnt an option when weve got a mortgage, clothes to pay for, household bills and everything else.

In the end, I told James straight: do this again and thats it well divorce. Well split the flat and live our own lives. He was furious, ran off to complain to his mum. Now my mother-in-law isnt even speaking to me. But I still think Im in the right. Dont you agree?

I was eight years old when my mum left home—she walked to the corner, got into a taxi, and never came back. My brother was five. From then on, everything in our house changed: Dad started doing things he’d never done before—waking up early to make breakfast, learning how to wash clothes, ironing our uniforms, clumsily brushing our hair before school. I watched him get the measurements of the rice wrong, burn the food, forget to separate whites from colours. Yet he never let us go without. Every evening, he’d come home tired from work, check our homework, sign our notebooks, and prepare our packed lunches for the next day. Mum never returned to visit. Dad never introduced another woman at home, never presented anyone as his partner. We knew he went out and sometimes stayed late, but his personal life remained outside the walls of our home. It was just me and my brother. I never once heard him say he’d fallen in love again—his routine was to work, come home, cook, do laundry, sleep, and repeat. On weekends, he took us to the park, to the river, even just window shopping at the nearest shopping centre. He learnt how to braid hair, sew on buttons, make packed lunches. When we needed costumes for school events, he’d make them from cardboard and old fabric. He never complained. He never said, “This isn’t my job.” A year ago, my dad passed away. It happened quickly—no time for long goodbyes. Sorting through his things, I found old notebooks, lists of household expenses, important dates, reminders like “pay the fee,” “buy shoes,” “take the girl to the doctor.” There were no love letters, no photos of another woman, no signs of romantic life—only the traces of a man who lived for his children. Since he’s been gone, one question won’t leave me: was he happy? My mum left to find her own happiness; my dad stayed and seemed to sacrifice his own. He never built another family, never had a partner to share a home with, never again was anyone’s priority except ours. Now I realise I had an incredible father. But I also know he was a man who stayed alone so that we wouldn’t be. And that weighs on me. Because now that he’s gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he truly deserved.

01

A Second Chance at Happiness “Sir, please stop following me! I told you, I’m in mourning for my husband. Don’t pursue me—you’re starting to frighten me!” I raised my voice. “I remember, I do… But it feels as though you’re mourning for yourself. Forgive me,” my persistent admirer replied. …After my husband’s sudden passing, I retreated to a countryside retreat for peace—seeking only silence and birdsong, not the attentions of meddlesome men. The loss of Oleg, my husband, left me alone with two teenage sons, a half-renovated flat, and an insurmountable ache. Reluctantly, at my colleagues’ urging, I left for the retreat. There, I was assigned to share my room with the ever-cheerful Vicky, who seemed to radiate joy. She laughed off my warnings about the men who courted her, while I spent my days in solitude. One morning, I stepped out for fresh woodland air and met a stranger—one I’d already spotted in the dining room; impeccably dressed and always greeting me with respectful bows. Though he was much shorter and not at all my type, he brought wildflowers each evening and, despite my resistance, grew ever more persistent. Valentine—so he introduced himself—joined me for evening strolls, soon convincing me to forgo my heels. His gentle voice and warmth eventually softened my resolve. On our last night, I yielded to Valentine’s invitation to his room for tea, our connection culminating in an unexpected new romance. But when I returned home, Valentine’s wife wrote to reveal their marriage. Months passed until Valentine appeared unannounced at my door—divorced now—and with hopes of building a blended family with me and his daughter. Life together proved anything but easy. My eldest, Andrew, and Valentine’s daughter, Alena, resented us for their disrupted childhoods—ultimately marrying each other, then growing distant. Yet, through hardships and hurt feelings, Valentine and I held on to our love. Years later, Andrew and Alena welcomed a son—our first shared grandchild. Over a joyful family meal, they finally forgave us, naming the boy Miles to symbolize new peace. So this is our second chance at happiness—our newfound, newborn joy.

05

“Button? I called her Holly. She was running about all morning, obviously lost – then curled up at my feet. So I tucked her in the car to keep her warm, the poor thing,” the man smiled… “Tammy, how can you be so unlucky? How many times have I told you, Vicky’s not the right one for you!” her mother scolded Tamara. She stood, head bowed, and though she’d just turned thirty-seven, she felt like a schoolgirl who’d brought home a failing grade. Tamara’s heart ached for herself, her failed marriage, and her little daughter—especially now, with the magic of Christmas around the corner, and no father in their home. “I’m leaving you,” Victor muttered carelessly that evening. Tamara stared blankly, not comprehending, as she set down a fragrant bowl of stew. “Where are you going?” she asked automatically. Victor rolled his eyes, “You just don’t get serious things, Tammy. And that yappy dog of yours, and our daughter’s always ill. No romance, no spark. Just look at yourself! What have you become?” And with that, he began packing his bags. Sensing trouble, their little dog Button circled Tamara’s feet, whining to comfort her. “At least now I’ll finally get some rest from her barking,” Victor called from the door, hoisting his duffle. “But what about Eva?” Tamara whispered, imagining how their five-year-old would be devastated. “Sort it out, you’re her mother, after all!” he replied, and left to Button’s howls. Tamara sat at the kitchen table all night, clutching the dog, who licked her face gently, as if to say she understood something terrible was happening. For days, Tamara hid the truth from her mother and dodged questions about her job search. But finally, her mother visited—and Tamara broke down, admitting Victor had left days prior and the job offers weren’t coming. Her mother scowled, “It was obvious from the start: five years together, a child, and he never married you!” Still, she promised to help look after Eva when needed, though she’d never liked Button—the street pup Tamara had once rescued. Another week passed. Tamara started work at Eva’s nursery; Eva was delighted, but worried, “Mum, can we take Button too? Gran grumbles about walking her—maybe Button could guard us during nap time and help you wash dishes!” Eva beamed. Tamara would laugh and hug her daughter, though Eva’s next question always stung: “Mummy, will Daddy be home for Christmas?” Not wanting to break the truth, Tamara invented a business trip. Victor, when reached, urged her not to disturb his new ‘private life,’ and suggested she tell Eva he was a ‘super-spy on a top-secret mission.’ As New Year’s Eve crept closer, Tamara dreaded the holiday alone, unsure how to explain everything to Eva. One day, Eva’s grandmother took her to the doctor after she’d caught a cold. Around the corner, they bumped into Victor. “Daddy! You’re back!” Eva cried—but he awkwardly explained that he wouldn’t be living with them anymore and hurried away. That night, Eva’s temperature rose, and she stopped speaking, eating, or drinking. The doctor blamed stress. Then, another blow: Gran lost Button while walking her, accidentally letting her slip away without a leash. Eva stubbornly refused to eat, vowing, “I’ll only have dinner when Button comes back.” Tamara searched the streets every evening, growing desperate. On New Year’s Eve, with Eva still sick and heartbroken over her missing friend and absent father, Tamara tried to comfort her: “There’s no big tree, sweetheart, but we’ve got each other…” But Eva sobbed, “We need a real Christmas tree. Then Button will come home—just like in my dream!” Unable to afford a fresh tree, Tamara bundled up and dashed out into the snowy dusk. Passing cheerful families, she barely noticed them—frantically calling for Button, scouring every street. She stumbled upon a nearly empty Christmas tree lot. The last tree was unsold, guarded by a burly man in an old winter coat. “Last one left—two-for-one if you want it!” he called out. Flustered, Tamara admitted she couldn’t afford a tree, but dared to ask for leftover branches. The man, moved by her sad story, offered the branches—and then, impulsively, loaded the final tree onto his van, insisting on delivering it for free. When she climbed into the van, Tamara gasped—there on the seat, Button slept, snug in a woolly jumper. “Button? I called her Holly. She was running about lost this morning, then curled up at my feet. Couldn’t let the poor thing freeze, so I took her in,” the man smiled kindly. He introduced himself as Paul—a fellow animal lover, recently heartbroken himself. Soon, Tamara’s home felt unusually warm and bright—not least because of the kindness of strangers, the reunion with Button, and maybe, just maybe, a bit of everyday Christmas magic. Nobody can say exactly how it happened—but what’s certain is this: Tamara, Eva, and sometimes even Gran, called their little dog both Button and Holly from that day on. And a new family found happiness, when it once seemed lost.

03

LOVING WITH PATIENCE, ENDURING WITH LOVE John and Mary had a church wedding. On the day of the ceremony, as the wedding procession neared the church, a wild summer storm sprang up out of nowhere and tore Mary’s veil from her head. The veil soared skyward like a balloon, whirled about, then dropped, exhausted, into a muddy puddle. All the guests gasped in shock. The storm vanished as swiftly as it arrived. John dashed for the veil but could not reach it in time. The once-snowy veil now lay in a black puddle. In distress, Mary called to her groom, “John, don’t pick it up. I’m not wearing that veil!” The local old ladies outside the church began to mutter, warning: with such a sign, storms and troubles would follow the couple’s lives… A fake white flower was hastily pinned in Mary’s hair from the nearest shop—there was no time to find a new veil. One does not keep one’s own wedding waiting! The bride and groom stood together, candles in hand, pledging their vows before God at the altar. But before the sacred ceremony, John and Mary had already signed papers at the registry office and celebrated with a beautiful reception. That, as Mary told herself, was for people. Three years later, their home rang with the laughter of two children: little Sophie and Arthur. Life flowed along peacefully. But a decade on, a knock came at John and Mary’s door. Mary, ever the gracious hostess, welcomed all—invited or otherwise—offering a warm meal, a cup of tea, and a listening ear. This particular guest, however, was different. She arrived when John was out. Mary’s eyes sized up the stranger immediately: well-built, beautiful, young, and polite. “Hello Mary,” she introduced herself. “I’m Emily. I’m… I’m to be your husband’s future wife.” “How fascinating!” Mary replied in surprise. “And how long has John been your fiancé?” Mary pressed on with the odd conversation. “A long while. But I can’t wait any longer. John and I are expecting a child,” Emily reported, entirely unfazed. “Hmm… A textbook saga—wife, mistress, illegitimate child… Do you know John and I are church-wed? We have children,” Mary tried to reason. “I know everything. But John and I have true love! Forever too! You could annul the marriage. He’s not faithful. I asked my priest; it’s allowed,” Emily insisted. “Well, young lady, I sincerely advise you not to interfere in another’s marriage! We’ll handle our own love and loyalty,” Mary said, now irritated. “Good day.” Emily shrugged—“I warned you”—and hastily left. Mary slammed the door, furious: “She’s done her research… not getting my John!” She couldn’t help recalling how John had seemed different lately—longer hours at work, sudden business trips, a newfound interest in fishing… All classic signs. Women always sense a rival’s shadow. But Mary forced the dark thoughts away; perhaps it was her imagination, and John was guiltless. That evening, when John got home, Mary fed him well before broaching the uncomfortable topic. “John, are you in love?” she began, struggling with the words. “I am,” John confirmed, tense. “Your… sweetheart came by today. Is it serious?” Mary dreaded his answer. “I’m a scoundrel! I can’t live without Emily! I tried to break it off but failed! Let me go, Mary!” John begged. “You’re free…” Mary replied softly, realizing appeals to conscience or the children would be pointless. Life would decide. John moved out to be with his beloved. Mary sought comfort, and advice, from her vicar. “My daughter, love suffers long and never fails—remember the words of Scripture. You have the right to annul the marriage, for your husband has fallen into sinful lust. Or you may forgive, pray, and wait for his return. The Lord works in mysterious ways…” Two months later, Mary discovered she was pregnant—John’s child. She felt it was a sign that, in time, John would repent and return. A baby boy was born; Mary’s mother suggested naming him Jack—an English John. “Maybe your John will find his way home—miracles happen,” her mother smiled, helping care for all the children with devotion. John never forgot Sophie or Arthur—he spoiled them, took them on seaside holidays, sent Mary money by envelope. Mary forbade the kids from telling him about baby Jack, but of course, children never obey. Sophie blurted out the secret on a visit; John, believing Mary had moved on, felt a pang for his old, happy life—not imagining Jack was his own son. Meanwhile, Emily was in hospital on bedrest. John flitted between bringing fruit and hunting for “tasty” chalk to quell her cravings for calcium. Tragedy struck: Emily gave birth to a stillborn daughter, then later suffered a miscarriage. Devastated, Emily longed for a pause before another child, but fate had other plans. John doted on her, feeling deep guilt for their suffering. Back at Mary’s, her former university friend David began visiting. He’d courted her years ago, but she’d always found him too picky, too serious, too much a mama’s boy. When she met John, David was resigned to his fate. One rainy autumn day, Mary met David on the bus. He sensed her sadness, and she invited him round. Over a hearty dinner, she poured out every sorrow. He listened quietly, with understanding. Mary pecked him on the cheek for his sympathy—David, still single and childless, became a regular guest, bringing treats for the children and flowers for Mary. Mary laid firm boundaries: “Come by as you please, but I’m waiting for my husband. No funny business.” Even friendship was happiness to David; he called her his honorary sister, the children, his nieces and nephew. Time passed, and change returned to John’s new family: Emily finally gave birth to a healthy daughter—Grace. Emily was swept into motherhood, but couldn’t forget her conversation with Mary. Stolen happiness is always tinged with bitterness. Only after Grace’s birth did she truly understand the pain she’d caused. She wanted to fall at Mary’s feet and beg forgiveness. John adored baby Grace—spoiling her, comforting her through the nights, cherishing every moment. Years flowed by. Five years later, Emily grew gravely ill at just thirty. John was frantic: hospitals, doctors, expensive treatments. Nothing helped—Emily was dying. Preparing herself for the end, she had just one last wish: “Take me to your first wife, please,” she whispered to John. Mary had heard the news—from Sophie, who still visited her dad. Mary agreed at once. John carried Emily, weak as a whisper, into the house. The whole family gathered, waiting for an explanation. “Leave us, please,” Emily asked quietly. Mary sat beside her on the bed. “Forgive me, if you can, Mary. This is God’s punishment. I beg you—please take Grace as your own. I have only John, and you. Promise you’ll raise her alongside John,” Emily pleaded desperately, tears streaming. Mary gently squeezed her hand. “Emily, it’s not God’s punishment—it’s our own doing. I forgave you long ago. Don’t worry about Grace—we won’t abandon her. Stay here, with John. My house is big enough for everyone. You’ll get better—believe me, with God all things are possible! Don’t despair.” So Emily stayed, the house swelling like a fairy-tale cottage, everyone finding a place. David, tender since the moment he met Emily, was her greatest support. Gradually, without realising, he fell in love with Emily, adoring Grace as if she were his own. Emily fought to recover. Driven by hope, by Mary’s kindness, and by David’s gentle presence, she slowly regained strength. In time, Emily announced at dinner: “Mary, John, Grace and I—and David—will be moving out. Thank you for everything—for your love, your home, your hearts. I have never met such people! I never will again. Thank you.” John and Mary exchanged looks; they knew that love was blossoming between David and Emily. Earlier, John had made a confession to Mary: “Mary, whatever happens, I want to come back to you, to raise our three children together. Please, take me back. I’ll beg, if I must!” “Do you even need to ask?” Mary replied, embracing her prodigal husband. “But what about Grace?” Mary worried. “She’s my daughter. I’ll never turn her away. My home will always be open to her,” John promised. As David, Emily, and Grace prepared to leave, Emily pulled John aside: “Love Mary, John—love her more than life. Don’t ever hurt her. I’ll remember you always.” “Be happy, Emily,” John replied.

05

I was eight years old when my mum left home. She walked to the corner, hailed a cab, and never came back. My brother was five. Everything changed after that. Dad began doing things he’d never done before: waking up early to cook breakfast, learning how to do laundry, ironing school uniforms, fumbling through brushing our hair before we left for school. I watched him misjudge rice portions, burn meals, forget to separate whites from coloured clothes in the wash. But somehow we never went without. He came home tired from work and helped with homework, signed our exercise books, and made lunchboxes for the next day. Mum never came to visit. Dad never brought another woman home, never introduced anyone as his partner. We knew he went out and sometimes got back late, but his personal life stayed outside our walls. There was only me and my brother. I never heard him say he’d fallen in love again. His routine was work, come home, cook, wash, sleep, repeat. On weekends he took us to the park, the river, the shopping centre—even if it was just to window-shop. He learnt how to braid hair, sew on buttons, and make packed lunches. When we needed costumes for school plays, he fashioned them from cardboard and old fabric. He never complained. Never said, “This isn’t my job.” A year ago, Dad passed away—it happened quickly, with no chance for long goodbyes. While sorting through his things, I found old notebooks: lists of household expenses, important dates, reminders like “pay the school fee,” “buy shoes,” “take the girl to the doctor.” No love letters, no photos with another woman, no sign of a romantic life. Just the traces of a man who lived for his children. Since he’s been gone, one question won’t leave me alone: Was he happy? My mum left to find her own happiness. Dad stayed and, it seemed, gave up his own. He never rebuilt a family. Never had a home with a partner. Never again became a priority for anyone but us. Now I realise what an incredible father I had. But I also see that he was a man who stayed alone so that we wouldn’t be. And that weighs heavy. Because now he’s gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he deserved.

04

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Husband Only Ever Thinks of Himself: He Eats Absolutely Everything—Not Even Our Child Gets Any Leftovers — “Adam, where have all the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. — “I ate them because I fancied them.” — “Couldn’t you at least have saved one for our son’s afternoon snack?” — “You’re making a fuss over nothing. It’s not like they don’t sell bananas in the shop.” — “Then go and buy some.” — “I’ve got the football match on—how can I go?” This is how it always is in our family: cheese, biscuits, apples—I even have to hide food because with a father like this, my son could go hungry. We’ve been married for five years. Our son is nearly two. We have a mortgage, so money’s tight. My husband believes he’s the provider—he gave us our home. But in reality, he only sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit; my parents helped too. My mum thinks Adam is a real egotist, and honestly, I kind of agree. One day we were preparing for a birthday party. I’m cooking for our guests, and he keeps wandering in and emptying the plates. The worst part: he got to the cake as well. I left it on the balcony since there was no room in the fridge. Brought it back to the kitchen to slice up—and saw all that was left was a piece of decorated chocolate. Imagine how embarrassed I was! This happens all the time. Yes, he earns money, but surely we can manage things sensibly and think about others. He always says, “Don’t worry! We’ll just buy more.” Okay, don’t care about me—but how can you not care about your own child? Especially when money’s tight and I have to make things last. In a week, we can go through a month’s worth of food. — “Why are you picking on him? He’s a man, let him eat. He earns the money. Instead of complaining, just cook more,” his mum defends him. But no matter how much you cook, he’ll never have enough—he eats everything. There’s no point in buying more, when we have a mortgage to pay, clothes and other household things to buy. Overall, I told my husband that if he does this one more time—I’m filing for divorce. We’ll split the flat, and each go our own way. He was offended and went running to his mum. Now my mother-in-law refuses to speak to me, but I think I’m right. What do you think?