All she wanted was a $5 salad. What she got was humiliation, a plate of fries, and a quiet moment that changed everything. Now Rae is learning what it means to stop apologizing for needing care — and why some women will never let another one go unseen.
He liked calling himself a provider.
But when I asked for a $5 salad, my boyfriend laughed at me like I was begging for gold.
I’m 26 and pregnant with twins.
When the test turned positive, I thought people would ease up… I thought he’d be better. Instead, I learned how invisible a pregnant woman can feel in her own home.
What I got instead was different.
What I got was Briggs.
He loved saying that he was “taking care of us.”
That was his line, and he used it when he asked me to move in, like it was a gift, a promise, and something sacred.
But it wasn’t about care, like I’d hoped. It was about control.
“What’s mine is ours, Rae,” he’d say. “But don’t forget who earns it.”
At first, I told myself I was just tired.
Then the comments started sounding like rules.
“You’ve been asleep all day, Rae. Seriously?”
“You’re hungry… again?!”
“You wanted kids — this is part of it all.”
It wasn’t just the words.
It was his smirk behind them and the way he always said them when someone else was in earshot. It was like he wanted witnesses.
By 10 weeks, my body was done, and I was battling with the changes happening inside me. But Briggs still dragged me to meetings and warehouse drop-offs like I was luggage.
“You coming?” he called once, while I struggled to get out of the car. “I can’t have people thinking I don’t have my life together.”
“You think they care what I look like, Briggs?” I asked, breathless.
My ankles were swollen, and a deep pain rose up my spine.
“They care that I’m a man who handles his business and his home,” he said. “You’re part of the picture, Rae. They’re going to eat it up.”
I followed him inside anyway.
My ankles throbbed with every step. And what did Briggs do?
He handed me a box without looking.
I didn’t have the energy to fight.
That day, we hit four stops in five hours. I’d been running on fumes, but I didn’t say a word.
Not until we got back to the car.
“I need to eat, babe,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “Please.
I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You’re always eating,” he muttered. “Isn’t that what you did last night? Cleaned out the pantry?
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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