Briggs loved the word provider. He wore it like a badge, like it excused everything else about him.

But the day he mocked me over a five-dollar salad, I realized he didn’t mean “I take care of us.” He meant “I own you.”

My name is Rae. I’m twenty-six, and I was pregnant with twins when this happened. I used to think pregnancy would soften people, especially the man who helped create the babies in me. I thought seeing my body change would wake up something protective in him.

Instead, it made me smaller in his eyes.

Briggs had a job in logistics—warehouse runs, meetings, drop-offs. He liked the image of himself: busy, important, the guy who “handles his business.” When he asked me to move in, he framed it like a rescue.

“What’s mine is ours,” he’d say, pulling me into his chest as if it was romance. Then he’d add, with that half-smirk that always came out when he wanted me to remember my place, “Just don’t forget who earns it.”

At first, I tried to be grateful. I told myself I was hormonal, sensitive, tired. I told myself we were adjusting.

Then the comments turned into rules.

“You’ve been asleep all day, Rae. Seriously?”

“You’re hungry… again?”

“You wanted kids. This is part of it.”

He never said it gently. He said it when other people were around—his coworker on speakerphone, a cashier at the store, a friend stopping by. He liked witnesses. He liked making me swallow my embarrassment in public and call it maturity.

By ten weeks, my body felt like a ship in rough water. Nausea that never let up. Dizzy spells that hit out of nowhere. A heaviness in my legs like I was walking through wet sand. And still, Briggs kept dragging me to his stops like a prop.

“You coming?” he’d call from the driver’s seat, watching me struggle to get out. “I can’t have people thinking I don’t have my life together.”

“You think they care what I look like?” I’d gasp, one hand braced on the door, the other instinctively guarding my stomach.

“They care that I’m a man who handles his business and his home,” he’d say. “You’re part of the picture.”

Sometimes, he’d toss me a box to carry like I was there to earn my seat.

“If you’re going to be here, you need to work.”

I didn’t have the energy to fight. I didn’t even have the energy to be offended properly. I was focused on keeping my breakfast down and my heartbeat steady.

That day, we hit four stops in five hours. By the time we climbed back into the car, I felt hollow. Not dramatic-hollow. Real-hollow. Like my body was running on the last drop of fuel.

“I need to eat,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Please. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Briggs didn’t look at me. He just sighed, annoyed, like my hunger was a personal attack.

“You’re always eating,” he muttered. “Didn’t you clean out the pantry last night? That’s the cycle. I work my butt off, and you eat it all away.”

“I’m carrying two babies,” I said. My hands were shaking, and that scared me more than his tone. “I feel dizzy.”

“You ate a banana.” He rolled his eyes. “Stop acting like a drama queen. You’re pregnant. That doesn’t make you special.”

Something in me went quiet at that. Not hurt—hurt had been my default for weeks. This was clarity.

Still, I asked one more time because I had to. “Can we just stop somewhere? I need to sit down.”

He acted like I’d requested a five-star restaurant. But eventually, he turned into a roadside diner with foggy windows and a flickering OPEN sign. Grease smell, laminated menus, booths that stuck to your skin. I didn’t care. It could’ve been a folding chair in a parking lot. I just needed food.

I slid into a booth and closed my eyes for a second. In my head, I pictured my girls. I’d started thinking of them as Mia and Maya—soft names, like a promise. Like a life that belonged to me, not him.

A waitress came over with a tired smile and a name tag that read Dottie. She looked like she’d been on her feet since sunrise. Kind eyes, hair in a loose bun, hands that moved fast because they’d learned to.

Before she could ask what we wanted, Briggs grunted, “Something cheap.”

I opened the menu and scanned for something with protein. My stomach turned at the thought of fried food. I landed on a Cobb salad.

It was five dollars.

Five.

“I’ll have the Cobb salad,” I told Dottie, voice quiet, almost apologetic out of habit.

Briggs laughed. Not a chuckle. A loud, barking laugh meant to carry.

“A salad?” he said, like I’d ordered a diamond. “Must be nice, Rae. Spending money you didn’t earn.”

Heat crawled up my cheeks. I stared at the table, trying to keep my breathing even. Keep the babies calm. Keep myself calm.

“It’s five dollars,” I said carefully. “I need to eat.”

“Five dollars adds up,” he snapped. “Especially when you’re not the one working.”

The booth beside us went still. An older couple had stopped mid-bite. The woman’s mouth tightened, and her eyes flicked from Briggs to me like she wanted to say something but didn’t know if she was allowed.

Dottie didn’t flinch. She looked at me, not him, and her voice softened.

“You want some crackers while you wait, sweetheart?”

“I’m okay,” I whispered.

“No, you’re not.” She said it with certainty, not pity. “You’re shaking. Low blood sugar will do that. Let me help.”

She walked away before I could protest. I sat there with my hand on my belly, trying to imagine my girls somewhere safe inside me, far from his voice.

When Dottie returned, she set down iced tea and a bowl of crackers like she was placing something precious in front of me.

Briggs scoffed. “Is everyone trying to be a hero today?”

Dottie finally looked at him. Just one calm glance, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not trying to be anything,” she said evenly. “I’m just being a woman who sees another woman struggling.”

Then the salad came.

There was grilled chicken on top. I hadn’t asked for it. I looked at Dottie, confused.

“That part’s on me,” she said, leaning closer. “Don’t argue. I’ve been you.”

Something in my throat tightened so hard I almost couldn’t swallow. Not because of the food. Because someone had seen me. Not the pregnant belly. Not the girlfriend-of. Me.

I ate slowly. Every bite felt like survival. Briggs barely touched his burger. He threw cash on the table like he was punishing the diner for existing and stormed out.

In the car, he snapped, “Charity is embarrassing.”

“I didn’t ask for anything,” I said.

“No, you just sat there and let people pity you. Do you know how that makes me look?”

That was the point, right there. It was never about my health. It was never about the babies. It was always about how he looked.

“I let someone be kind,” I said quietly. “And that’s more than I can say for you.”

He didn’t answer. For once, neither did I.

That night, he came home late and different. Not loud. Not smug. Just… dented. Keys rattled onto the counter, and he sat on the edge of the couch with his head down like he’d lost something.

“Long day?” I asked, still foolishly polite.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

“I’m not starting. I’m asking.”

He rubbed his jaw. “That diner lady knows somebody,” he said. “My boss called me in. The client requested I don’t come to meetings anymore.”

He glanced away like it tasted bitter.

“They took my company card.”

I watched him, and I expected to feel triumphant. I expected fireworks of satisfaction.

I felt nothing. Just a small, quiet exhale. Like the universe had finally blinked and noticed what was happening in my life.

“Over nothing,” he added quickly, trying to patch his ego back together.

“Nothing?” I repeated.

He narrowed his eyes. “People are too sensitive.”

“Or maybe people are finally watching,” I said.

He stood up and walked upstairs without another word.

I didn’t follow. I curled on the couch under a throw blanket and rested my hand on my belly.

“Mia,” I whispered. “Maya. You’ll never have to earn kindness from me.”

Over the next few days, Briggs avoided me. He paced, cursed at emails, blamed “dramatic people.” He never said Dottie’s name again, but I heard her voice in my head constantly: I’ve been you.

And I started moving.

Not fast. Not perfectly. But forward.

I emailed old friends. I looked up prenatal clinics where no one treated pregnant women like burdens. I called my sister and asked if her guest room was still available. I didn’t explain everything on the phone. I just said, “I need to come home.”

One morning after Briggs slammed the door on his way out, I drove back to the diner.

My hands were sweating on the wheel by the time I parked. I walked in and spotted Dottie behind the counter. When she saw me, her face lit up like she’d been hoping I would.

“You came back,” she said. “Sit down. I’m taking my break.”

She brought hot chocolate first, then fries, then a thick slice of pie like she was feeding a part of me that had been starving for months.

I laughed softly. “These are all my cravings.”

“Cravings are universal,” she said, like that was the least surprising thing in the world.

I stared at my hands. “I keep thinking maybe he’ll change.”

Dottie leaned back, eyes steady. “You can’t build a life on maybe. Not with babies coming.”

“Twins,” I said. “Girls.”

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“You want your girls to know what love looks like?” she asked gently. “Show them by how you let yourself be treated.”

That sentence lodged in my chest and didn’t move.

When I stood to leave, Dottie walked me to the door and handed me a small paper bag.

“Refill on fries,” she said with a wink. “And my number. If you ever need a ride, a couch, anything. Call.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“For seeing me.”

Outside, the cold hit my cheeks, and I didn’t flinch. I sat in my car and booked a prenatal appointment. Then I texted Briggs, hands steady for the first time in weeks.

You will not shame me for eating again. Ever. I’m moving to my sister’s. I need peace.

My palm settled over my belly.

“Mia,” I said. “Maya. We’re done shrinking.”

And for the first time since the test turned positive, I felt something like power return to my body—quiet, real, and mine.