I served myself three meatballs at dinner—my husband blew his top and declared I needed to slim down.
Six years of marriage, and I’ve brought three little humans into the world. Oliver, the eldest, is five, little Daisy is three, and baby Henry is just six months old. My name’s Emily, and I’m thirty-six. Family and children were all I ever wanted, and on paper, I’ve got it all. But lately, I can’t shake the feeling I’m disappearing into the background.
I met William when I was pushing thirty. While my girlfriends were flaunting engagement rings, swapping baby stories, and debating mortgages, I was stuck in the work-home-work loop, wondering if I’d ever meet the right bloke.
Then he appeared—tall, confident, a former rugby player turned department manager. I never thought I’d catch his eye. But he pursued me—date nights, texts, even asking about my favourite books. When he introduced me to his mum, I knew it was serious.
His mother was an absolute sweetheart. She took to me straight away, calling me “love” and nudging William to propose. We married, and I was over the moon. Nine months later, Oliver arrived, and I went on maternity leave. Then came Daisy, then Henry. I never returned to work. My life became nappies, school runs, and endless laundry.
Oliver does football and art club, Daisy has me as her reluctant homeschool teacher. I like to think I’m a decent mum. But here’s the snag—I’ve put on weight. A lot. I’m nearing 12 and a half stone now, when I used to be a neat 7 and a half. Back then, I hit the gym twice a week. Now? With three kids, finding time to brush my hair feels like a victory.
Twice, I’ve attempted home workouts—inevitably interrupted by cries for juice, loo trips, or a clingy toddler. Some days, dragging myself out of bed is achievement enough, let alone squats.
At first, William joked—called me “curvy,” “his little dumpling.” It almost felt affectionate. Then the jokes stopped. He’d just stare, sigh. Then came the remarks.
Last week, I dished myself three small meatballs at lunch—I was starving, hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He snatched two off my plate, slapped them back into the pan, and said flatly,
“You need to lose weight. Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
I froze. Then he added,
“If I fall for someone else, it’ll be your fault. I want a woman I’m proud to be with. Look at you—what do you see?”
It stung like a slap. I bit my lip, staring at my plate, thinking, “He’s right. I’ve let myself go. I’m tired. Unattractive. Boring.”
I’d love a manicure, a shopping spree, even just a coffee alone. But there’s no time or money. Every penny goes on the kids, clubs, rent, William’s suits—he’s management, after all—and helping his mum, whose pension barely covers her bills. For me? Nothing left.
Sometimes, I cry in changing rooms when nothing fits. Nothing looks good. I feel frumpy and invisible.
He earns decently, but it never stretches far. I’ve no income—I’m stuck. No time to work, no energy to claw my way out.
I’m terrified he’ll leave. I see how he looks at other women—slim, polished, effortless. I try. Really, I do. But between cooking, cleaning, and wiping noses, “perfect” isn’t an option.
Without his mum, I think he’d have packed his bags by now. She tells him, “William, you’ve a wonderful wife and mother. Don’t throw it away over a few extra pounds.”
I cling to her words, hoping he’ll remember why he loved me. That this is just a phase. That I’ll find myself again. But right now? I’m just scared.
Sometimes, I dream I wake up as the old me—slim, carefree, confident. Then Henry’s 3 a.m. wail jolts me back to reality, to bottles, mush, and exhaustion.
I’m worn out. I don’t feel like a woman anymore. Just a function—mum, housekeeper, ghost.
And the same thought keeps gnawing: “What if he really leaves?”
