All I wanted was a $5 salad. What I got instead was humiliation, a plate of fries, and a quiet moment that changed everything. That was the day I began learning what it means to stop apologizing for needing care—and why some women will never let another one go unseen.
Briggs liked to call himself a provider. But when I asked for a $5 salad, he laughed at me like I was begging for gold.
I’m 26, 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.
He loved saying he was “taking care of us.” That was his line when he asked me to move in, like it was a gift, a promise, 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 his 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, the way he said them when someone else was listening. He wanted witnesses.
By ten weeks, my body was done. I was battling 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 swollen, pain rising 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. They’re going to eat it up.”
I followed him inside anyway, my ankles throbbing with every step. He handed me a box without looking.
“Come on, if you’re going to be here, you need to work.”
I didn’t have the energy to fight.
That day, we hit four stops in five hours. I was running on fumes, but I stayed quiet—until we got back to the car.
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