My friend Emma is an incredible cook. Divine, absolutely brilliant—she can turn a courgette and a potato into something extraordinary! And her baking! That golden roast meat of all kinds!
Anyway, that’s not the point.
Emma carries some extra weight—quite a bit, actually—but she’s genuinely beautiful, smooth and rosy as a fresh apple, full of energy, no shortness of breath, no high blood pressure. She’s been married to her husband, James, for fifteen years. And for all fifteen of those years, James has relentlessly, with gleeful cruelty, mocked her for that extra weight. Always inventive, always creative. In front of friends. In front of strangers. He conjures up what he thinks are affectionate nicknames—my little heifer, my hippo. Oh, she stepped on my foot, now my entire James is broken!
He lavishes praise on gym-fit women and anyone lucky with genetics. I’ve been on the receiving end of those dubious compliments a few times myself and foolishly leapt to Emma’s defence, ranting about metabolism, heredity, how bodies work—useless, of course.
Emma always kept her composure, even smiled at the jokes. Sometimes she’d poke fun at herself too. After their daughter was born, things got worse. The girl inherited Emma’s “apple” figure, and as she neared puberty, James switched his focus to her: “Why are you eating so much? You’ll end up like your mother! Look at yourself—don’t you want to be pretty instead of some shapeless grazing animal?”
That’s when Emma finally snapped. She talked to him once, twice, a third time—said this had to stop. Of course, it fell on deaf ears. Then, about a year ago, the explosion happened. I wasn’t there, but I heard the story. When James started another round of “witty” remarks about his wife’s figure in front of company, she suddenly said, “James, you know what? I’ve had enough. If you don’t like how I look, I won’t keep you. Go find someone slim—I’m done.”
She called a taxi and left. James kept cracking jokes, didn’t rush after her. Where’s she gonna go? he said. She’ll blow off steam and cool down. She knows she looks like an overripe tomato. Even friends tried telling him he was out of line, that Emma looked gorgeous—but no use.
Emma wasn’t at home. Neither was their daughter. Turns out, they’d packed their things and gone to her parents—they’ve got a house across town. Bit of a hassle for school, but fine. The second blow? Emma filed for divorce. James couldn’t believe it—over a few jokes?! Impossible! She must be seeing someone! Though, well, who’d want a woman that size…
You can probably guess. There was no other man—Emma was just done. She’s got a great job at a big firm, earns a very decent salary, her parents helped out—so without waiting for the marital flat to be divided, she bought a nice two-bed in a new development for her and her daughter.
After the split, James ended up with a one-bed flat. Had to sell the car, split the money. Now he’s paying child support for three more years—his salary’s modest, so after a quarter’s docked, it’s barely enough.
But the real kicker? James tells friends his ex, that heartless witch, spoiled him with fifteen years of amazing food, and now he’s stuck with ready meals or eating at his mum’s after work. Her roast chicken, he says, haunts his dreams. Her shepherd’s pie. Those pastries! Rows of them, all sorts of fillings! He wakes up in tears. Find another woman? Tried that. Cooks slop, inedible. Yeah, she’s slim—well, relatively, at our age you don’t get models. Why not a younger one? Didn’t work out—salary’s too small, and he’s no Adonis himself these days: belly, bald spot, huffing and puffing. Pushing fifty, after all.
The worst part, he says? Emma’s lost weight. Not drastically, but noticeably—dropped a couple of dress sizes. Mutual friends say she’s cooking completely differently now—still delicious, but more veg-focused. She and their daughter were never mad for meat. And the sweet pastries? That was always James’ demand, his sweet tooth.
Recently, he says, he saw her at the supermarket—stunned. Went up to her: “Look at you, not half bad now. Actually, I really fancy you. Let’s give it another go.”
She told him where to go.
He’s furious. “I came to her with an open heart,” he complains, “and she threw it back in my face. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be waddling around like a cow. Ungrateful, cold… woman.”
Emma Sullivan.
