I served myself three small meatballs at dinner—my husband, Edward, lost his temper and announced I should be dieting.
Six years of marriage, three children: Oliver, age five; little Daisy, three; and baby Henry, just six months old. My name’s Eleanor, I’m thirty-six, and on paper, I’ve got everything—the happy family, the home, the lot. Yet lately, it feels like I’m disappearing into the laundry pile.
Edward and I met when I was nearly thirty. All my girlfriends were married by then, swapping stories about school runs and mortgages while I was stuck in the work-home-work rut. Then he swanned into my life—tall, confident, ex-rugby player, now a department head at some firm. I never imagined he’d fancy me. But he kept asking me out, bringing me coffee, even introduced me to his mum after six months. That’s when I knew it was serious.
His mother, bless her, took to me straight away—called me “love” from day one and nudged Edward into proposing. We married, had Oliver nine months later, and I never went back to work. Daisy came next, then Henry. My days are school runs, playgroups, and trying to keep tiny humans alive. I like to think I’m a decent mum. But here’s the catch—I’ve gained weight. A lot. I’m nearly 12 stone now, and back in the day? A trim 7 stone 10. Back then, I managed gym sessions twice a week. Now? Ha. Try sneaking in sit-ups between nappy changes and snack negotiations.
Edward used to tease me—called me his “curvy cupcake,” pinched my waist affectionately. But the nicknames stopped. Now it’s just silent stares, heavy sighs. Then came the comments.
Last week, I served myself three little meatballs—I hadn’t eaten all morning. Before I could lift my fork, Edward stabbed two off my plate, dumped them back in the pan, and said flatly, “You need to lose weight. Have you *seen* yourself lately?”
I froze. Then, as if that wasn’t enough: “If I end up fancying someone else, it’ll be your fault. I want a woman I’m proud to be with. Look at you.”
It stung, obviously. Part of me thought, *Maybe he’s right. I’ve let myself go. I’m exhausted, frumpy, invisible.*
I’d love a haircut, a proper manicure, even just a coffee out alone. But between ballet lessons for Oliver, Daisy’s homeschool books, and keeping Edward in those posh shirts for work (because *appearances matter*), there’s never a spare penny. We even help his mum with her pension. Me? I’m last on the list.
Sometimes, I try on clothes in Primark and cry in the changing room. Nothing fits. Nothing *looks* right. Edward earns decently, but it’s never enough. And with no income of my own, I’m trapped—no time to work, no energy to claw my way out.
I’m terrified he’ll leave. I’ve seen how he looks at other women—sleek, polished, effortless. I *try*. But between cooking, cleaning, and wiping sticky fingers, “effortless” isn’t in my vocabulary.
His mum’s my only lifeline. “Eddie,” she’ll say, “you’ve a lovely wife and beautiful children. Don’t be daft over a stone or two.” I cling to that. Maybe he’ll remember why he loved me. Maybe this is just a phase.
Sometimes I dream of waking up as the old Ellie—bright-eyed, fit, *alive*. Then Henry wails at 3 AM, and it’s back to bottles and burp cloths.
I’m tired. I don’t feel like a woman anymore. Just a checklist: Mum. Maid. Ghost.
And the thought won’t leave me: *What if he really does walk out?*
