He took two burgers off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. After six years of marriage and three children, I’m terrified of being left alone.
I’m thirty-six. Six years ago, I became a mother to three wonderful kids: Tommy’s five, little Molly’s three, and baby Leo is just six months old. I always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how exhausting it would be—physically, emotionally, and in every other way. Life feels like an endless race, and I’m always running on fumes.
I met Oliver when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already married with kids, while I was either at work or at home—alone. Then suddenly, there he was: tall, athletic, effortlessly charming. Back then, he had a great job—a senior position at a law firm. I never thought a man like that would look twice at someone like me.
I knew he was serious when he introduced me to his mother. Eleanor—kind, refined, the sort of woman who puts you at ease instantly—adored me straight away. She practically nudged him down the aisle herself. We married quickly, almost in a whirlwind. And then came the babies.
First Tommy, and I quit my job. Then Molly, then Leo. I never went back. The kids are my full-time job now: the older ones aren’t in nursery, Tommy’s got football club, I homeschool Molly, and baby Leo’s always in my arms. I love them more than anything, but I’ve got nothing left—no energy, no… me.
I used to weigh seven stone. I went to the gym, ran in the mornings, took care of myself. Now? Twelve stone and counting. My days are a blur of nappies, homework, pasta, tantrums, and cleaning—rinse and repeat. Exercise? If I try, they swarm me like ants, climbing, tugging, demanding attention.
Oliver used to joke about it—called me “curvy” or “my little doughnut.” But the laughter faded, and so did his patience.
Last Friday, we sat down for dinner. I served myself three burgers. He glanced over, silently took two, and put them back in the pan.
“You need to slim down. If I find someone else, it’ll be your fault,” he said, not even looking at me.
I froze. Like a punch to the chest. I know I’ve changed. That I’m exhausted. That I’m not the woman he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to this family? That I haven’t slept because one’s teething, another won’t touch broccoli, and the third lost his schoolbook—again? Don’t I deserve a little kindness?
I’d love a spa day, a manicure, a haircut. But there’s no money. It all goes on the kids—classes, groceries, the mortgage, helping his mum. Oliver earns well, but expenses pile up. And of course, *he* has to look sharp—he’s the boss. Me? I might as well live in my dressing gown. The woman in the mirror is a stranger. Dresses don’t fit. Jeans won’t button. Everything feels wrong.
Sometimes I don’t feel like a woman at all. Just a shadow—feeding, cleaning, holding it together, but never *feeling*, never daring to dream. The only one keeping us afloat is Eleanor. She calls, visits, helps with the kids. I cling to the hope she won’t let him walk away. Won’t let him destroy everything I’ve lived for these past six years.
Sometimes I’m terrified: What if he packs a bag and leaves? Leaves me with three kids and the ghost of who I used to be? I don’t ask for much. Just wish he’d remember why he loved me. See that I’m still her—just so, so tired.
