I placed three small meatballs on my plate—my husband flared up and snapped that I needed to lose weight.
Six years of marriage, and we have three children. Our eldest, Thomas, is five; our daughter, Emily, is three; and the youngest, Oliver, is just six months old. My name is Rebecca, and I’m thirty-six. I’d always dreamed of a close-knit family and children, and on paper, I have everything—yet lately, I feel like I’m disappearing.
I met Jonathan when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already wearing wedding rings, raising toddlers, discussing schools and mortgages, while I struggled to find my person. Work, home, work again—that was my life. Then he appeared—tall, confident, a former athlete turned department manager. I never imagined someone like him would notice me. But he did, asking me out, showing interest in my hobbies. When he invited me to meet his mother, I knew it was serious.
His mum was the kindest woman. She welcomed me instantly, called me “love,” and nudged Jonathan to propose. We married, and I was happy. Nine months later, Thomas was born, and I left my job. Then came Emily, then Oliver. Ever since, my life has revolved around the children and home.
Thomas goes to dance and art classes, Emily learns at home with me. I consider myself a good mother. But there’s one problem—I’ve gained weight. A lot. Nearly eighty kilograms now, when I used to be fifty. Before, I managed gym sessions twice a week. Now, with three children, finding a moment for myself is nearly impossible.
A couple of times, I tried home workouts—only for one child to need water, another the loo, the third begging to be held. Some days, mustering the energy to even get out of bed feels impossible, let alone exercise.
At first, Jonathan teased me gently—calling me “pudding” or “my little bear.” It almost seemed endearing. Then it stopped. He’d just stare at me in silence, sighing. Then came the remarks.
Last week, we sat down for lunch. I served myself three small meatballs—I was starving, having skipped breakfast. He snatched two off my plate, tossed them back into the pan, and said coldly,
“You need to lose weight. Have you looked at yourself?”
I froze. Then he added,
“If I fall for someone else, it’ll be your fault. I need a woman I’m proud to be with. And you… well, take a good look.”
The words slapped me. I dropped my gaze, bit my lip. My thoughts spiraled: *He’s right. I’ve let myself go. I’m unattractive. Exhausted. Uninteresting…*
I dream of salon visits, manicures, massages, even just a café. But there’s no time or money. Everything goes to the kids, their classes, rent, bills, Jonathan’s work clothes—he’s a manager; he needs to look sharp. We help his mum too—her pension is small. For me? Nothing’s left.
Sometimes, I stand in changing rooms, trying on clothes, and cry. Nothing fits. Nothing looks right. I feel ugly and invisible.
Jonathan earns well, but it never stretches far. With no income of my own, I’m trapped—too busy to work, too drained to break free.
I’m terrified he’ll leave. I see how he looks at other women—slim, polished, effortless. I try. Truly. But I can’t be “perfect.” My days are just cooking, laundry, cleaning, bedtime stories, wiping noses and nappies.
Sometimes, I think if not for his mother, he’d have packed his bags already. She tells him, “Jon, you’ve got a wonderful wife, a devoted mother. Don’t throw away your family over a few extra pounds.”
I cling to her words. I hope—pray—someone will talk sense into him. That he’ll remember why he loved me. That this is temporary. That I’ll find myself again. But right now? I’m just afraid.
Sometimes, I dream of waking up as the old Rebecca—slim, bright, sure of herself. Then Oliver’s cries jolt me awake at three AM, and it’s back to nappies, bottles, baby food…
I’m tired. I don’t feel like a woman anymore. Just a function. A mother. A housekeeper. A shadow.
And one thought keeps looping in my mind: *What if he really leaves?*
Yet in the quietest moments, I wonder—when did I stop mattering? A woman’s worth isn’t measured by her dress size, but by the love she gives—and the love she’s owed in return.
