All I wanted was a five-dollar salad.
What I got instead was humiliation, a plate of fries I didn’t ask for, and a quiet moment that cracked something open inside me.
That moment changed everything.
My name is Rae. I’m 26 years old, and I’m pregnant with twins.
When the pregnancy test turned positive, I thought people would soften. I thought they would be gentler. More careful.
Instead, I learned how invisible a pregnant woman can feel inside her own home.
My boyfriend liked calling himself a provider.
He said it proudly, like it was his crown.
But when I asked him for a five-dollar salad, he laughed at me like I was begging for gold.
His name is Briggs.
He loved saying he was “taking care of us.” That was his favorite line. He said it when he asked me to move in, like it was a gift, like a promise, like something holy.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
I wanted to believe that meant care.
But it didn’t.
It meant control.
“What’s mine is ours, Rae,” he’d say casually. “Just don’t forget who earns it.”
At first, I blamed my exhaustion. I told myself I was emotional. Hormonal. Sensitive.
Then the comments started sounding less like jokes and more like rules.
“You’ve been asleep all day, Rae. Seriously?”
“You’re hungry… again?”
“You wanted kids. This is part of it.”
It wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it. The smirk. The timing. Always when someone else could hear, like he wanted witnesses.
By ten weeks, my body was already done.
The nausea was constant. My ankles swelled. A sharp pain crawled up my spine every time I stood too long.
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?” I asked, breathless. “I can barely stand.”
“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.”
So I followed him inside.
My ankles throbbed with every step.
He handed me a box without even looking.
“If you’re going to be here,” he said, “you need to work.”
That day we made four stops in five hours.
I didn’t complain. I didn’t argue. I ran on fumes and silence.
Until we got back to the car.
“I need to eat,” I said carefully. “Please. I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You’re always eating,” he muttered. “Didn’t you clean out the pantry last night? That’s the cycle, isn’t it? I work my butt off, and you eat it all away.”
“I’m carrying two babies,” I said quietly. “I haven’t eaten since dinner.”
“You ate a banana,” he snapped. “Stop acting like a drama queen. You’re pregnant. That doesn’t make you special.”
My hands shook. I stared out the window.
“Can we just stop somewhere?” I asked. “I feel dizzy.”
He sighed like I’d asked for something extravagant.
Eventually, he pulled into a roadside diner. Foggy windows. Sticky booths. Laminated menus.
I didn’t care.
I slid into the booth and closed my eyes, trying not to throw up.
For a moment, I pictured what I wanted more than anything: two little girls asleep in matching onesies. Tiny bellies rising and falling.
Mia and Maya.
The names whispered to me like freedom.
A waitress came over. She looked tired but kind. Her name tag read Dottie.
Before she could speak, Briggs grunted.
“Something cheap, Rae.”
I opened the menu and searched for protein. I chose a Cobb salad.
Five dollars.
“That’ll be fine,” I said softly. “Thank you, Dottie.”
“A salad?” Briggs laughed loudly. “Must be nice, huh? Spending money you didn’t earn.”
“It’s just five dollars,” I said. “I need to eat. The babies need me to eat.”
“Five dollars adds up,” he said. “Especially when you don’t work.”
The diner went quiet.
A gray-haired woman nearby stiffened.
Dottie looked at me closely.
“You want some crackers while you wait, sweetheart?” she asked gently.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“No, honey,” she said softly. “You’re shaking. That happens when blood sugar drops. You need to eat.”
She walked away before I could argue.
When she came back, she set down crackers and iced tea.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“Is everyone trying to be a hero today?” Briggs scoffed.
Dottie raised an eyebrow.
“I’m just a woman helping someone who’s struggling,” she said calmly.
When my salad arrived, it had grilled chicken on top.
“I didn’t order that,” I said.
“That part’s on me,” Dottie said quietly. “Don’t argue, missy. I’ve… been you.”
I ate slowly, gratefully.
Briggs barely touched his burger.
When we left, he snapped, “Charity is embarrassing.”
“I didn’t ask for anything,” I said.
“You let people pity you,” he hissed. “You embarrassed me.”
“I let someone be kind,” I said. “That’s more than you did.”
That night, he came home late. Quiet. Defeated.
“The client asked I don’t attend meetings anymore,” he muttered. “They took my company card.”
“Over nothing,” he laughed bitterly.
“Or maybe someone finally saw you,” I said softly.
He didn’t answer.
Days passed. He avoided me.
I remembered Dottie.
I started planning.
One morning, after he left, I drove back to the diner.
Dottie smiled when she saw me.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m on break.”
She brought fries. Hot chocolate. Pie.
“I keep thinking he’ll change,” I admitted.
“You can’t build a life on maybe,” she said. “Not with babies.”
“Girls,” I said. “Twins.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Show your daughters what love looks like by how you let yourself be treated.”
When I left, she pressed a paper bag into my hand.
“Extra fries,” she winked. “And my number.”
In my car, I booked a prenatal appointment.
Then I texted Briggs:
You don’t shame me for eating again. Ever. I’m moving back to my sister’s.
I rested my hand on my belly.
“Mia. Maya,” I whispered. “We’re done shrinking.”
And for the first time, I meant it.