My Husband Only Thinks of Himself—He Eats Absolutely Everything and Never Leaves Anything for Our Son! “Adam, where have all the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. “I ate them, I fancied some.” “Couldn’t you have left even one for our son’s tea?” “You’re just making a fuss. It’s not like the shops have run out of bananas.” “Then go and get some more.” “I’ve got a football match. How can I go?” This is how things are in our home all the time: cottage cheese, biscuits, apples—you name it. I even have to hide food, otherwise with a father like this, my little boy might end up hungry. We’ve been married for five years, and our son’s nearly two. We’ve got a mortgage, so money is tight. My husband claims he’s the breadwinner because he got us this home—although, in truth, he just sold his single-bed flat for the deposit, with my parents’ help. My mum thinks Adam is a selfish so-and-so, and honestly, I tend to agree. One day, we were preparing for a birthday party. I’m cooking for the guests and he’s constantly under my feet, emptying the plates. The worst was when he got at the cake. I’d left it on the balcony because the fridge was full. I went to fetch it, and all that was left was one decorated slice of chocolate. Imagine how embarrassed I was! This happens all the time. Sure, he works, but it’s possible to be sensible and think of others. His only excuse: “We’ll buy some more, don’t stress!” Fine, don’t think about me, but how can a father not think about his own child? Especially when we barely have enough money, and I’m counting on every bit. He can easily eat a month’s worth of food in a week. “Why are you bothering him? He’s a man, let him eat. He earns the money. Don’t whinge, just cook more,” my mother-in-law defends him. Thing is, no matter how much I cook, it’s never enough—he’ll eat everything. We can’t afford to just buy more, with the mortgage, the clothes, the bills. After all this, I told my husband that if he does it again—we’re getting divorced. We’ll split the flat and go our separate ways. He took offence, ran to his mother, and now my mother-in-law isn’t even speaking to me. But I honestly think I’m right. What do you think?

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 3

My husband only ever thinks of himself. He eats absolutely everything, not leaving a crumb for even the little one.

James, where have the bananas gone? I ask my husband.
I ate them. I fancied something sweet, he says quite simply.
Couldnt you have saved just one for our sons tea?
Oh honestly, youre making a fuss out of nothing. Its not as if they dont sell bananas in the shop.
Then why dont you pop out and get some more?
Ive got to watch the football match. How can I go?

This is the sort of thing that goes on in our house constantly: cottage cheese, biscuits, apples. Ive even had to hide food, or else with a father like his, my son could end up hungry.

James and I have been married five years. Our little boys nearly two now. Theres a mortgage, so money isnt exactly flowing in. James seems to think hes the great provider because he gave us a flat to live in. The reality is he sold a poky one-bedroom place to put down a deposit, but my parents helped as well. My mothers always saying James is a proper selfish sort, and, to be honest, I rather agree.

One day we were getting ready for a birthday do. I was busy cooking for the guests while James kept weaving about, scoffing everything he got his hands on. The worst was the cakemy painstakingly decorated chocolate cake. I had to leave it out on the balcony since the fridge was too jam-packed. I popped out to fetch it and saw that, instead of a glorious cake, there was only a sliver leftjust some shredded chocolate and a limp bit of icing. Imagine my embarrassment!

And it never ends. Yes, he earns a wage, but surely its possible to sort everything sensibly and consider others. He always falls back on, Well just buy more, dont fret! Finedont care about me, but how can you not care about your own child? Especially when our moneys stretched and Im careful with our food. The weeks shopping vanishes in a few days.

Why are you making such a song and dance? Hes a man, let him eat. He brings in the money. If youre unhappy, just cook more, his mum always defends him.

The funny thing is, though, no matter how much I cook, its never enough. Hell eat absolutely everything. Its not as if we can just buy more eitherwhat with having to pay the mortgage and get everything else a family needs.

In the end, I told him if he does it again, Ill divorce him. Well split the flat, go our separate ways. He sulked and ran off to his mother, who now refuses to speak to me. But I still think Im in the right. What do you reckon?

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the hospital with her newborn son. But there was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun was shining, she pulled her now-loose jacket tight, grabbed her bag with clothes and paperwork in one hand, adjusted her baby with the other, and started walking. She had nowhere to go. Her parents had flatly refused to let her bring the baby home—her mother demanded she give him up. But Tanya had grown up in care herself, after her own mother abandoned her, and she’d vowed never to do the same, no matter what it cost. She’d been adopted by a decent couple—not rich, often ill, but kind and indulgent, so she never really learned independence. Now, Tanya understood she was partially to blame for her son’s absent father; he’d seemed serious, promised to introduce her to his family, but when she told him she was pregnant, he’d said he wasn’t ready for nappies, left, and blocked her number. Tanya sighed. “No one’s ready—not the father, not my parents,” she thought. “But I’m ready to take responsibility.” She sat on a bench, letting the sun warm her face. Where could she go? People had said there were shelters for mothers like her, but she’d been too shy to ask about them, hoping her parents would change their minds and come. But they hadn’t. She decided to go to the countryside, to stay with her gran—she’d help out in the garden while receiving Child Benefit, and find a job later. Things would work out; grannies are usually kind. She shifted her sleepy son, pulled out her battered phone, and nearly walked in front of a car. The driver—an older, tall man—jumped out, scolding Tanya for not watching where she was going, saying she could have killed herself and the baby and left him with jail time. Tanya, frightened and teary-eyed, comforted her now-wailing son. The man calmed down and asked where she was going. Sniffling, Tanya admitted she didn’t know. “Well, hop in,” he said. “You and the little one can come to mine, get settled, and we’ll sort things out.” He introduced himself as Mr Constantine Gregory, and helped her in. At his roomy flat, he offered a bedroom for Tanya and her baby and fetched essentials, refusing any money. He quickly enlisted a friendly neighbour who was a doctor; she drew up a list and called in a visiting nurse for tomorrow. Later, Constantine Gregory confided that he’d lost his only son, Saveliy, in a tragic motorbike accident before his wedding. He’d never met his late son’s child—though he had a photo of the bride-to-be and knew she’d been expecting. “Stay here,” he urged Tanya. “You and the baby—this is your home now. I’m lonely, and would love some family around.” Tanya agreed happily—and revealed that she’s adopted from care, her birth mother leaving only a locket on her blanket. When she emerged in new clothes, Mr Constantine Gregory noticed the locket and, upon opening it with a special mechanism, discovered a lock of his late son’s hair inside. Realising that Tanya was actually his granddaughter, he joyfully embraced her and her son, refusing any DNA test—“You’re my granddaughter, and he’s my great-grandson. Case closed.” “Would you like to see photos of your parents?” he asked, his eyes shining with tears of happiness. By Sofia Corall.

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the maternity hospital with her newborn son. There was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun shone down as she wrapped herself in her loose jacket, gathered her meagre belongings and documents, cradled her baby, and stepped outside. She had no idea where to go. Her parents had refused to let the baby come home; her mother demanded she sign him away. But Tanya, herself a child from the care system, had promised never to abandon her own child, no matter what. She’d grown up with foster parents who treated her kindly and sheltered her from hardship, but life hadn’t been easy. She blamed herself for her son having no father. He’d seemed serious, promised to introduce her to his family, but when Tanya told him she was pregnant, he said he wasn’t ready and vanished out of her life. Now, no one was prepared to help—not the baby’s father, not her parents. Only Tanya was willing to take responsibility. Tanya sat on a bench, feeling the warmth of the sun and the weight of her future. She’d heard about centres that support mothers in her situation, but hadn’t dared ask for directions, clinging to hope her family would show up. They never did. With resignation and hope, she decided to travel to a village where an elderly lady—her grandmother—might take her in. She’d help with the garden and find work when her benefits ran out, trusting that luck would smile on her eventually. She adjusted her sleeping son, opened her battered phone to find the nearest bus, and nearly walked into the path of a car. The driver, a tall, gray-haired man, leapt out and scolded her for not looking where she was crossing—saying she’d get them both killed, and that he’d end up in jail for it. Frightened, Tanya wept, which made her baby join in. On learning she had nowhere to go, the man said: “Get in the cab with your boy. We’ll sort this out and see what can be done. I’m Konstantin Gregory. And you?” She replied, “Tanya,” and followed him. At his spacious flat, he gave her and the baby a room and fetched supplies. His neighbour, a doctor, helped list what she’d need, and when he returned, he found Tanya asleep, the baby wakeful. While caring for the child, Tanya woke and panicked at her son’s absence, until Konstantin returned the baby reassuringly and showed Tanya his purchases. He explained his history—a widower whose son was lost in a tragic accident years ago, whose fiancée vanished before he’d had a chance to help. He invited Tanya to stay, insisting she and her baby belonged. Moved by his kindness, Tanya explained she’d been adopted, her own mother abandoning her at an orphanage gate—leaving only a necklace. When Konstantin noticed the familiar pendant and revealed it was one he had made for his late son, both were stunned: the pendant held a lock of his son’s hair. It dawned on them—Tanya was his granddaughter. Her suggestion of a DNA test was waved aside. “No need,” he said, “You’re family—my granddaughter, and that’s my great-grandson.” The past had kept them apart; fate had brought them together—a family at last. By Sofia Coralova