Briggs always boasted about being a “provider,” using the word like a shield to excuse his behavior. But the day he mocked me for ordering a five‑dollar Cobb salad, I realized what he really meant wasn’t taking care of us — it was owning me.
My name’s Rae. I was twenty‑six and pregnant with our twin girls when it happened. I thought pregnancy would soften Briggs, make him protective or kind. Instead, he became controlling and dismissive, critiquing my eating, belittling my needs, and dragging me around like I was a prop while I struggled with nausea and exhaustion.
At a roadside diner, I ordered something simple — a five‑dollar salad. Briggs laughed at me loudly, critiqued my “spending,” and made me feel small. But Dottie, the waitress, saw I was shaking and genuinely offered help, bringing me crackers and even adding grilled chicken to my salad without charge. Her kindness punched through the fog of Briggs’s insults.
Briggs left in a huff, and later lost privileges at work because of how he acted — not because of me, but because people were finally watching. That night, instead of feeling vindicated, I felt a quiet clarity.
The next days, I started planning my exit. I reached out to family, booked a prenatal appointment, and told Briggs I was leaving for peace. I would protect these babies — my girls — and no amount of mockery would shrink us anymore.