I nearly left my husband… because he ate too much.
I can’t take it anymore. Honestly. I’m just exhausted. Shaking with frustration. Burning with anger. On the verge of tears. Oliver and I have only been married for a year and a half, but in that time, I’ve mentally packed my bags and imagined storming out at least fifteen times. The reason? Food. Or rather—his appetite. His inhuman, monstrous, almost cosmic hunger.
He eats enough for three men. Three fairy-tale giants. And their horses. And the dragon, if we’re being honest. At first, I thought: *Fine, he’s a man, a big appetite means I cook well.* But then I realised—I’m not cooking for *me*, I’m cooking for slaughter. Biscuits, pies, pancakes—gone in seconds. The moment I set them on the table, they vanish. I make soup—the pot’s empty by evening. And I haven’t even had a bite.
My friends laugh. “Goodness, I only cook every other day,” one says. “A pot of stew lasts us a week.” Easy for them. Me? It’s like kitchen slavery. I eat like a sparrow—that pot would last me a week. But Oliver doesn’t work that way. A normal dinner for him is three bowls of soup, five cutlets, and half a loaf of bread. Every single night.
I *know* men need more food. But not like this! I might as well live by the stove. Come home from work—straight to cooking. Frying, boiling, stewing, scrubbing. Towers of dishes. Crumbs everywhere. Pots on eternal guard duty. And him? He’s *tired* because he *drove home* and didn’t have time to stop at the shops.
“I don’t know what you want me to buy,” he defends. “Besides, I’m exhausted. Work’s mad.”
And I’m not tired? Those bags of potatoes, cabbage, meat—every day! My hands shake carrying them up the steps. I’ve held his father up as an example: “Your dad goes to the market himself, preserves jars, cooks better than restaurants. Your mum hardly touches a pan because he does it all.” But Oliver? Like he’s not even his son.
Then it hit me—*this can’t go on*. I took unpaid leave, packed a bag, and left for my parents’ in the Cotswolds. Mum had been asking. They live in the countryside, quiet and slow. Fresh milk, homemade butter, strawberry jam. Best of all—not a single pan for me to scrape clean.
I left Oliver a note. Brutally honest: *“I’m worn out. I need a break. I’m not sure I want to be married to someone I can’t feed.”* He started calling straight away. I didn’t answer. Then I switched my phone off. I needed *weeks* of freedom. To remember what it’s like to be a woman, not a short-order cook.
Mum fed me scones, we chatted on the porch at dawn, laughing over steaming tea. For the first time in forever, I *breathed*. Relaxed. Even confessed I wanted a divorce. Mum blinked—then burst out laughing.
“Oh, darling, listen to you! ‘Divorce—reason: husband eats too much!’ Never thought I’d hear *that*.”
They found it funny. I didn’t. It was *my* truth. *My* pain.
On the train back, I scrolled through photos. Found one of Oliver grinning, holding the cake I baked for his birthday. So happy. So *real*. My throat tightened. What if… I’ve made it all too complicated?
I didn’t tell him when I’d return. Wanted to slip in quietly. Stepped off the platform, heading for the taxi rank—then froze.
There he was. Oliver. My glutton. Holding peonies—my favourite. Dishevelled, shadows under his eyes, but with such a shy, genuine smile that I burst into tears.
He pulled me close, whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how hard it was. Never again.”
At home, a surprise awaited. The flat sparkled. The table—set. He’d cooked all my favourites. Bought my beloved éclairs. The fridge—neat containers, meals prepped for the week. And beside it—*a second fridge.*
“So you shop once a week. No more hauling bags. I get it now,” he said.
And I got it too—I love him. Yes, he eats like a horse. Yes, he drives me mad. But he *tries*. He *listened*. And that—that’s priceless.
Divorce? Off the table. Dinner? On. And yes, I’ll still be cooking. But now—with love. And his help.