He took two sausages off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. After six years of marriage, I’d given him three children—and now I was terrified he’d leave me.
I’m thirty-six. In six years, I became a mother to three beautiful children: Tommy, five; Lottie, three; and baby Oliver, just six months old. I’d always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how exhausting it would be—physically, emotionally, in every way. Life had turned into an endless race, and I was always gasping for breath.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already married, raising kids, while I shuffled between work and an empty flat. Then he appeared—tall, athletic, effortlessly charming. Back then, he had a promising career, managing a team at a law firm. I never thought a man like him would look twice at someone like me.
I knew he was serious when he introduced me to his mother. Margaret was warm, gentle, refined—she took to me instantly. She adored me, practically nudged him toward proposing. We married quickly, almost recklessly. Then came the babies.
First Tommy, and I left my job. Then Lottie, then Oliver. I never went back. The children were my life: the older two weren’t in nursery, Tommy had football practice, Lottie’s early learning was all on me—and always, always with the baby in my arms. I love them, they’re wonderful, but I’ve got nothing left. Not an ounce of strength, not… any part of who I used to be.
I used to weigh seven stone. Went to the gym, jogged every morning, took care of myself. Now I’m nearly twelve. My days are nappies, porridge, laundry, homework, tantrums, a never-ending loop. No time for exercise, no energy. And if I try? The children swarm me, pulling at my clothes, demanding attention.
James used to joke about it. Called me “pudding,” “my little dumpling.” But slowly, the jokes stopped. Then the patience ran out.
Friday night at dinner, I’d served myself three sausages. He glanced down, silently took two, and put them back on the tray.
*“You need to slim down. If I end up with another woman, it’ll be your fault.”* He said it so calmly, without even looking at me.
I froze. Like a fist to the chest. I *know* I’ve changed. I’m exhausted. I’m not the woman he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to this family? That I haven’t slept in years because one’s teething, one won’t eat peas, and the other lost his reading book *again*? Don’t I deserve a scrap of kindness?
I’d *love* a spa day, a haircut, a new dress. But there’s no money. It all goes on the kids—clubs, food, the mortgage, helping his mum. James earns well, but the costs pile up. And of course *he* has to look sharp—he’s the boss. Me? I can make do with an old dressing gown. But I barely recognise my reflection. My skirts dig in. My jeans won’t button. Everything feels wrong.
Sometimes I don’t feel like a woman at all. Just a ghost. Feeding, cleaning, holding it all together—but never *feeling*, never daring to dream. The only thing keeping us together is Margaret. She visits, calls, helps with the kids. And I pray she’ll stop him from leaving. From destroying everything I’ve poured my life into these past six years.
Sometimes I’m paralysed by fear—what if he packs his bags and walks out? Leaves me with three children and the shell of who I used to be? I don’t ask for much. Just for him to remember why he loved me. To *see* me, still here—just so, *so* tired.
