“I Served Myself Three Burgers, but My Husband Got Furious”: He Took Two Away and Told Me I Needed to Lose Weight

I was 29 when I met Eric. By then, all my friends had already tied the knot, some even starting their families. I remember feeling a bit out of place at gatherings, the only single one left. But then Eric came along, charming and confident, and everything just clicked. We married within a year, and not long after, our family started to grow.

Fast forward eight years, and here I am, a 34-year-old mother of three: Bobby, Ruby, and little Lily, who’s just nine months old. Life is a whirlwind of school runs, diaper changes, and trying to keep up with the endless energy of a house full of kids. Eric works long hours at his tech job, so most of the day-to-day responsibilities fall on my shoulders.

It was a typical Thursday evening when the incident happened. Eric had come home late, as usual, his face buried in his phone, barely acknowledging the kids rushing up to greet him. I had spent the better part of the afternoon juggling Lily’s feeding and nap times with helping Ruby with her kindergarten art project and making sure Bobby did his homework.

Dinner was my moment of respite, a chance to sit down. I decided to treat myself and cooked burgers, a family favorite. I was particularly hungry—balancing breastfeeding with chasing after a toddler and a first-grader is no small feat—so I put three burgers on my plate.

As we sat down to eat, Eric finally looked up from his phone. His eyes narrowed as he saw my plate. Without a word, he reached over, took two of my burgers, and placed them on his own already full plate. I stared at him, stunned and hurt.

“You really need to start watching your weight, Ellie,” he said, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. “You’ve let yourself go since having the kids.”

The room felt like it had frozen over. Bobby and Ruby looked from me to Eric, sensing the tension but not understanding. I felt my face flush with embarrassment and shame. Not wanting to make a scene in front of the children, I bit my lip and focused on my remaining burger, my appetite gone.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. I cleared the dishes, tucking the kids into bed while Eric disappeared into his home office. Lying in bed later, I couldn’t sleep. His words echoed in my mind, a painful reminder of how invisible the daily struggles of motherhood were to him. How could the man I loved, the father of my children, reduce my worth to the number on a scale?

Over the next few weeks, things didn’t improve. Eric’s comment hung like a dark cloud over our marriage. I tried to talk to him about how his words had hurt me, but he brushed it off, insisting he was just concerned about my health.

But it was more than that. It was about respect, understanding, and support, none of which he seemed willing to offer. Our conversations grew more strained, our interactions more perfunctory. I felt more like a cohabitant than a wife, a caregiver rather than a partner.

As I lay awake many nights, listening to the soft breathing of my children, I realized that something fundamental had shifted between us. The love that had once bound us together was fraying, worn thin by neglect and insensitivity. I didn’t know if we could ever mend it, and for the first time, I faced the heart-wrenching possibility that we might not last. The realization was as painful as it was clear: sometimes, love isn’t enough to overcome the wounds we inflict on each other, sometimes unintentionally, in the chaos of life.