**Diary Entry – 15th March**
I used to think padlocks on fridges were a joke—just another internet meme. Then I saw one in person at the hardware shop: a sturdy metal lock with a tiny key. I stood there, staring, and for the first time, I seriously considered buying it. Not to keep food from the kids or thieves—but from my own husband.
My name is Emily, I’m thirty, and I live with my husband and daughter in Manchester. I work hard, juggling everything like a hamster on a wheel. But out of all the chaos, it’s not my job or my child that exhausts me the most—it’s the man I share a roof with. My husband, James, notices nothing and no one but his plate. He eats. Constantly. Thoughtlessly, without restraint, without shame.
I come home tired, knowing there’s a small stash in the fridge—a bit of chicken, some cheese, maybe yoghurt for our daughter. But when I open the door, it’s empty. Not just picked at—completely gone. Silently, without a word, he’s devoured it all overnight. Sausages, cheese, even the strawberries I bought for our little girl—vanished, like they fell into a black hole.
Just last week, I splurged on raspberries for her. You know how pricey they are off-season? But she saw them in the shop and begged. I couldn’t say no. At home, she savoured them slowly, with such delight… I deliberately saved half for the next morning. Woke up—empty container. He’d eaten every last one. And then he laughed, “Just go buy more! We’ve got the money, what’s the issue?”
The issue, James, is you don’t *think*. Not about our daughter, not about me. You didn’t ask, didn’t consider—just ate, like it was your right. Meanwhile, I’m stuck playing the role of a short-order cook, scrambling to keep the kitchen stocked. You polish off the last slice of ham—and what? No guilt, no effort to make up for it.
He was raised by a mother who fed him like he was training for a pie-eating contest. Massive portions, endless treats. He’s tall, used to be athletic, but those habits stuck. Me? I grew up learning moderation. I try to raise our daughter the same—mindful, not greedy. But with him as her example, it’s a losing battle: grab everything, leave nothing.
It’s not about the money. We’re comfortable—I work at a design agency, he’s in logistics, steady incomes. It’s about respect. About considering someone besides yourself. See food? Pause. Think—was this for your child? Your wife? Is that so difficult?
Here I am again, staring into the fridge. Empty. Again. That familiar anger simmers under my ribs. I’m tired. I didn’t marry to become a live-in kitchen maid. I wanted to be loved—a wife, a mother, a partner. Not a catering service for a grown man who sees this house as a diner with a sofa.
I’ve told him—he doesn’t live *with* a family, he lives *off* one, treating our home like a bachelor flat with 24/7 access to the fridge. He just waves me off: “You’re a poor housewife if the food runs out. A proper wife always has plenty on hand.” Oh, brilliant. Should we swap the dishwasher for a second wife while we’re 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 staff. One where someone *listens*. One where I’m more than “the wife”—where I’m a person who matters.
**Lesson today: Love shouldn’t feel like a one-way meal ticket.**
