My name is Emily, and I’m thirty-six. For six years now, I’ve been married and raising three children. The eldest, Oliver, is five. The youngest, Sophie, is three. And the baby, Noah, is just six months old. I don’t work—I stay home and look after the kids. The only time I ever did was right after uni, before maternity leave. The rest of the time, I’ve been a mum. And let me tell you, it’s not as easy as it sounds.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. Back then, my friends were already settling down, while I was still juggling the office and a rented flat. He was tall, charismatic, and confident—former athlete, head of his department. I never thought a man like him would notice me. But he invited me to meet his mum, and that’s when I knew it was serious.
Margaret, his mother, turned out to be kinder and sweeter than her years suggested. Right away, she said, “Look after this girl.” A few months later, we tied the knot.
When Oliver was born, I quit my job and threw myself into motherhood. Then came Sophie, and just recently, Noah. I’ve never left my kids for a second. Oliver takes dance and art classes, Sophie’s still at home with me—I teach her myself. We don’t do nursery because I’m here, and I truly believe I’m a good mum. My children are warm, comfortable, and never bored.
But at some point, everything started crumbling. After the third baby, I put on weight. Now I’m around 12 stone, though I used to be slim—just over 7 stone. I used to hit the gym, get my nails done, take care of myself.
Now, there’s no time or energy. If I try to exercise, Noah cries, Sophie wants a drink, Oliver begs me to see his latest drawing. Sometimes I can’t even drag myself off the sofa—sleepless nights, breastfeeding, sheer exhaustion. I’m not complaining; it’s just how it is.
At first, James joked. Called me “pudding,” “cuddle bear.” Said I’d softened up—literally and figuratively. I laughed with him. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I’d put three sausages on my plate—I’d been on my feet all day, hadn’t eaten a thing. Then James snatched my fork, took two sausages off my plate, and said coldly, “You need to lose weight.” Then he added, “If I end up with someone else, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
I sat there, stunned. My stomach dropped. Yes, I know I’ve gained weight. Yes, I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. But don’t I deserve at least a little respect? I’ve given him three children. I’ve given up my career. I’ve given up myself.
I’d love to get my nails done, have a pedicure, book a massage. I’d love to buy a nice dress. But there’s no time or money for that. Everything goes on the kids, their classes, the bills. James is a manager—he has to look perfect. We even help his mum out. And me? I make DIY face masks with oats and honey at night, once the kids are asleep.
I haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. And if I do step into a shop, I leave in tears. Because nothing fits. Because I’m not who I used to be.
I’ve lost faith that I’ll ever be slim again. My only hope is Margaret—that she won’t let James wreck our family. Because I don’t feel like a wife anymore. Just a mum and a housekeeper. But isn’t that worth respecting?…
