He devours enough for three, yet he cares only for himself Im not a wife; Im merely a walking pantry.
I used to think the locks on refrigerators were a jokejust another silly meme floating around the web. Then I saw one in person: a sturdy iron padlock with a tiny key, displayed in a hardware shop. I stood there, studying it, and for the first time I entertained a serious thought: what if I bought it? Not to shield kids food or keep thieves out, but to protect my own husband
My name is Élodie, thirty years old, living in Lyon with my husband and our daughter. I work hard, hustle like a whirlwind in a holy water font, as we say back home. Yet, despite all the bustle, the thing that drains me most isnt the job or my child, but the man I share a roof with. My husband, Théo, sees nothing and no one beyond his plate. He eats. Continuously. With no discernment, no limits, no remorse.
I come home exhausted, knowing theres a little stash left in the fridge for dinnera slice of meat, some cheese, perhaps a yogurt for my girl. But when I swing the door open, the stash is gone. Not just partly used, but completely emptied. Quietly, without warning, he has devoured everything. Overnight. Sausages, cheese, even the raspberries I bought for my daughtervanished, as if sucked into a black hole.
A few days ago I bought strawberries for my little one. You know how pricey they are out of season? She saw them at the market and begged for them. I couldnt say no. At home she savored them delicately, with pure delight I had set some aside for the next day, tucked into the fridge. In the morning the bowl was empty. Hed eaten them all, down to the last one. Then he had the nerve to laugh: Well, just buy more! We have the money, whats the problem?
The problem, Théo, is that you never think! Not about your daughter, not about me! You didnt ask, you didnt consider, you just wolfed them down as if they were yours by right. And Im left as the perpetual cook, constantly buying and preparing. You finish the last salamiso what? No guilt, no effort to make up for it.
He grew up with a mother who overindulged him from the starthuge portions, endless sweets. Hes tall, once sporty, but those habits stuck. Me? Ive always favored moderation. I try to raise my daughter that waywithout excess, but with awareness. Yet with her father she learns the opposite: gulp everything, right away.
It isnt about money. We lack nothing: I work at a design agency, he at a transport firm, our incomes are steady. Its about respect. About putting others before yourself. Do you see the issue? Ask yourself who the food is meant for. Did your daughter want it? Did I set it aside? Is that really so hard to grasp?
Here I am again, standing before the fridge. Empty again. That simmering, burning anger rising inside me. Ive had enough. I didnt marry to become a housekeeper. I wanted to be a loved woman, a mother, a partnernot a food supplier for a man who only sees a plate and a couch in this house.
I told him: you dont live as a family, you live like a bachelor with unrestricted access to our fridge. He just shrugged: Youre a bad housewife if the food doesnt stay. Good wives always have something to eat on hand. Really? Then why not buy a washing machine to replace the wife?
Lately Im beginning to wonder: maybe I dont need a lock for the fridge, but a key for my own life. A life where Im not condemned to serve, where my desires matter to someone, where Im not merely a wife but a person who is heard and respected.
