I’ve been a pescatarian for over a year—fish is the only meat I eat. My husband’s family knows this, yet when they invited me to a party, the entire menu was beef. I arrived hungry and hopeful, only to find nothing I could eat. I told my husband I was starving, expecting empathy. Instead, he said he’d eat quickly and we’d leave. That crushed me. I had planned a romantic dinner at home, complete with lobster—he knew this. But there he was, filling up while I sat empty.
His aunt offered me a burger, and I gently declined, reminding her I don’t eat beef. She froze, then admitted she’d forgotten. That moment stung. I waited for hours, watching everyone eat while my stomach churned. Eventually, I escaped to the bathroom and cried. I felt invisible, dismissed. When I returned, I told my husband we were leaving. On the drive home, I reminded him of the dinner I’d prepared. He said he’d forgotten. That hurt more than anything.
I wasn’t just hungry—I felt betrayed. My dietary choice isn’t a whim; it’s part of who I am. His family didn’t make a single accommodation, not even a salad or fries. And my husband, the one person who should’ve had my back, didn’t. I wasn’t expecting a feast—just a gesture. Something that said, “You matter.” Instead, I got silence, forgetfulness, and a ruined evening. Was I overreacting? I don’t think so. I was excluded, and it hurt.
I’ve learned that love isn’t just about big gestures—it’s about showing up in small ways. Remembering someone’s dietary needs, honoring their effort, choosing empathy over convenience. I’ll talk to my husband again, but I’ll also watch how he responds. Because if someone can forget your needs this easily, maybe they’ve forgotten how to care. I deserve to be seen, heard, and fed—not just literally, but emotionally.
