I used to think fridge locks were just a joke—some silly internet meme. Then I saw one in person: a sturdy little padlock with a key, right there in the homeware shop. I stood staring at it and actually considered buying it—not to keep food from kids or thieves, but from my own husband.
My name’s Emily, I’m thirty, and I live with my husband and daughter in Manchester. I work hard, rushing around like a headless chicken, as the saying goes. But out of all the chaos, what exhausts me most isn’t my job or our little girl—it’s the man I share a home with. My husband, James, doesn’t notice anything or anyone outside his plate. He eats. Constantly. Thoughtlessly, endlessly, shamelesslya.
I come home exhausted, knowing I’ve tucked away a bit of dinner in the fridge—some chicken, a bit of cheese, maybe a yogurt for our daughter. Then I open the door and find it barren. Not just picked at—completely empty. Without a word, without warning, he’s eaten it all overnight. Sausages, cheese, even the strawberries I bought for our little girl—gone, as if swallowed by a black hole.
Last week, I bought her raspberries. You know how pricey off-season berries are? But she spotted them in the shop and begged. I couldn’t say no. At home, she ate them slowly, savoring every bite… I deliberately saved half for the next morning, tucking them safely in the fridge. When I woke up? The tub was empty. He’d eaten every last one. And then he had the nerve to laugh: “Just buy more! We’ve got the money, what’s the issue?”
The issue, James, is that you never think! Not about our daughter, not about me! You didn’t ask, didn’t hesitate—just gobbled it all like it was yours by right. And me? I’m just the caterer, scrambling to keep the kitchen stocked. You polish off the last sausage—then what? No guilt, no effort to make it right.
He was raised by a mother who piled his plate sky-high—massive portions, endless treats. He’s tall, fairly fit, but the habits stuck. Me? I grew up with moderation. I’m trying to raise our girl the same—not to hoard, but to be mindful. Yet her father sets the opposite example: grab everything, leave nothing.
It’s not about money. We’re comfortable—I work at a design agency, he’s in logistics, our income’s steady. It’s about respect. About considering someone besides yourself. See something? Think—who was it for? Did your daughter ask? Did your wife save it? Is that really so hard?
So here I am again, staring into an empty fridge. Again, that anger simmering in my chest. I’m tired. I didn’t marry to become a kitchen manager. I wanted to be loved—a wife, a mother, a partner. Not a food delivery service for a grown man who sees nothing but his plate and the sofa.
I tell him—you don’t live with a family, you live like a bachelor with full fridge access. He just waves me off: “You’re a rubbish housewife if the food runs out. Proper wives always have plenty on hand.” Oh, really? Should we get you a wife for the washing machine too?
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 the help. One where someone cares what I want. One where I’m more than a wife—I’m a person who’s actually heard.
