He loved calling himself a “provider.” But when I asked for a $5 salad, my boyfriend laughed like I’d asked for gold.
I’m 26 and pregnant with twins. When I found out, I thought he’d be gentler. Instead, I learned how invisible a pregnant woman can feel in her own home.
“Providing,” to Briggs, meant control. He dragged me to meetings and warehouses, made me carry boxes with swollen ankles, and reminded me—often, and in front of others—that he earned the money. The comments turned into rules. Hunger became an inconvenience. Exhaustion became my fault.
One day, after not eating since the night before, I asked to stop. He called me dramatic. At a diner, I ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a $5 Cobb salad. Briggs mocked me loudly for spending money I “didn’t earn.”
A waitress named Dottie noticed I was shaking. She brought me crackers and added chicken to my salad, quietly telling me she’d been me once. Briggs was furious—until that night, when he came home smaller. Silent. His client had complained. He was pulled from meetings. His company card was taken.
Someone had finally seen him.
In the days after, I remembered how it felt to be seen. I started planning. I went back to the diner. Dottie reminded me you can’t build a life on “maybe,” especially with babies on the way.
So I left. I moved back with my sister. I booked prenatal care. And I promised my daughters—Mia and Maya—that we were done shrinking.