I’m 26 and pregnant with twins. My boyfriend, Briggs, loved calling himself a “provider,” but really it meant I obeyed while he controlled everything. I was exhausted, swollen, and dizzy, yet he mocked me constantly.
One day, starving, I asked to stop for food. I ordered a $5 Cobb salad. He laughed loudly: “A salad? Must be nice to spend money you didn’t earn.” I stayed quiet.
At the diner, a kind waitress named Dottie noticed me shaking and quietly brought me food and water. Briggs scoffed, embarrassed, and left. That night, he came home subdued, the first crack in his arrogance.
Dottie’s kindness reminded me I deserved care. Over the following days, I took small steps for myself and the babies. I returned to the diner, where she encouraged me: “You want your girls to know what love looks like? Show them by how you let yourself be treated.”
I realized I didn’t need a perfect man—I needed peace and safety. I texted Briggs: I’m moving back to my sister’s. Mia and Maya will never have to earn kindness.