All she wanted was a five-dollar salad.
What she got instead was humiliation, a plate of fries she didn’t ask for, and a quiet moment that changed everything.
My name is Rae, and I’m twenty-six years old. I’m pregnant with twins.
When the test turned positive, I thought people would soften. I thought they’d slow down, be gentler, maybe even protective. Instead, I learned how invisible a pregnant woman can feel inside her own home.
He liked calling himself a provider.
That was his favorite word.
“I take care of us,” Briggs would say, chest puffed out, like it was a badge of honor. He said it when he asked me to move in, like it was a promise and a gift wrapped in the same sentence.
At the time, I believed him.
I thought care meant safety. Warmth. Understanding.
What I got was Briggs.
“What’s mine is ours, Rae,” he’d say, smiling. “But don’t forget who earns it.”
At first, I told myself I was just tired. Pregnancy does that to you, especially when there are two babies growing inside you. But then the comments started stacking up, and they didn’t sound like jokes anymore.
“You’ve been asleep all day, Rae. Seriously?”
“You’re hungry… again?!”
“You wanted kids. This is part of it.”
It wasn’t just the words. It was the timing. The way he said them when other people could hear. Like he wanted witnesses. Like he wanted an audience to agree with him.
By ten weeks, my body had had enough.
I was nauseous, dizzy, swollen, and exhausted in a way sleep didn’t fix. Still, Briggs dragged me along to meetings and warehouse drop-offs like I was luggage.
“You coming?” he called once, already halfway inside a building, while I struggled to swing my legs 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 burned, and pain crawled 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, Rae. They’re going to eat it up.”
So I followed him.
Inside, my feet throbbed with every step. I tried to stay quiet. Tried not to sway.
Briggs didn’t even look at me when he shoved a box into my arms.
“If you’re going to be here, you need to work.”
That day, we made four stops in five hours.
I ran on fumes and stubbornness, counting minutes instead of meals. I didn’t complain. Not once.
Until we got back to the car.
“I need to eat, babe,” I said softly. “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 bust my butt to stock food, and you eat it all away.”
“I’m carrying two babies,” I said, my hands shaking. “And I haven’t had anything since dinner.”
“You ate a banana,” he snapped. “Stop acting like a drama queen. You’re pregnant. That doesn’t make you special.”
I stared out the window, blinking hard.
“Can we just stop somewhere?” I asked again. “I feel dizzy.”
He sighed like I’d asked for a vacation.
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, breathing slowly. For just a moment, I imagined my babies. Mia and Maya. Tiny, warm, safe.
The waitress came over. She was older, tired eyes but kind ones. Her name tag read Dottie.
Before she could speak, Briggs cut in.
“Something cheap, Rae.”
I ignored him and scanned the menu. I needed protein. I chose the Cobb salad.
Five dollars.
“I’ll have the Cobb salad, please,” I said quietly.
Briggs laughed loud enough for other tables to hear.
“A salad?” he said. “Must be nice, huh, Rae? Spending money you didn’t earn.”
“It’s just five dollars,” I said, voice steady for the babies. “I need to eat.”
“Five dollars adds up,” he muttered. “Especially when you don’t work.”
Nearby, conversations stopped. A gray-haired woman in the next booth looked over, her lips pressed tight.
“You want some crackers while you wait, sweetheart?” Dottie asked gently.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“No, honey. You’re shaking,” she said softly. “You need to eat.”
She returned with crackers and iced tea.
When the salad came, it had grilled chicken on top.
“I didn’t order—”
“That part’s on me,” Dottie said, leaning in. “Don’t argue, missy. I’ve been you.”
I ate slowly, every bite grounding me.
Briggs barely touched his burger.
“Charity is embarrassing,” he snapped in the car. “You just sat there and let people pity you.”
“I let someone be kind,” I said. “That’s more than I can say for you.”
That night, Briggs came home quiet.
“My boss called,” he muttered. “The client requested I don’t attend meetings anymore. They took my company card.”
“Over nothing?” he scoffed.
“Or maybe people are finally watching,” I said.
He didn’t respond.
Days passed. I moved slower, but I moved. I remembered Dottie. I remembered being seen.
One morning, I drove back to the diner.
“You came back,” Dottie smiled.
She brought hot chocolate, fries, and pecan pie.
“You can’t build a life on maybe,” she told me gently. “Not with babies on the way.”
“They’re girls,” I said. “Twins.”
“Then show them what love looks like,” she said, squeezing my hand.
When I left, she pressed a bag into my hand.
“Call me anytime, sweetheart.”
I sat in my car and 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 need to take care of myself.”
I rested my hand on my belly.
“Mia. Maya,” I whispered. “We’re done shrinking.”
And for the first time, I believed it.