**Friday, 15th March – A Diary Entry**
My name is Emily, and I’m thirty-six. I’ve been married for six years and am raising three children. The eldest, Oliver, is five. The youngest, Poppy, is three. And little Henry is just six months old. I don’t work—I stay at home, caring for the kids. The only job I ever had was straight 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 seems.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. By then, my friends were settled with families, while I was still juggling work and rented flats. He was tall, charismatic, self-assured—had a rugby background, a department manager. I never dreamed a man like him would notice me. But he invited me to meet his mother, and that’s when I knew it was serious.
Margaret, his mum, was kinder than I expected. Right away, she said, *”Look after this girl.”* A few months later, we married.
When Oliver was born, I quit my job and threw myself into motherhood. Then came Poppy, and now Henry. I don’t leave my children for a second. Oliver does football and art club, Poppy stays home—I teach her myself. No nursery for us, because I’m here. And honestly? I think I’m a good mum. My kids are warm, happy, and loved.
But at some point, everything fell apart. After Henry, I gained weight. Now I’m nearly 12 stone, when I used to be barely 8. Back then, I went to the gym, had my nails done, took care of myself. Now? No time, no energy. If I try to exercise, Henry cries, Poppy wants a drink, Oliver needs me to see his drawing. Sometimes I can’t even get off the sofa—sleepless nights, breastfeeding, exhaustion. I’m not complaining, just stating the truth.
At first, James joked. Called me *”curvy,”* said I was *”cuddlier”*—literally and otherwise. I laughed along. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I put three sausages on my plate—hadn’t eaten all day. James snatched my fork, took two, and said coldly, *”You need to lose weight.”* Then added, *”If I find someone else, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”*
I sat there, stunned. Felt sick. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight. Yes, I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. But don’t I deserve basic respect? I’ve given him three children. I gave up my career. I gave up *me*.
I’d love a manicure, a massage, a nice dress. But there’s no time or money. It all goes on the kids, clubs, bills. James is a manager—he has to look sharp. We even help his mum. And me? I make DIY face masks with oats and honey after the kids are asleep.
I haven’t bought anything new in over a year. Walking into shops just makes me cry—nothing fits. I’m not who I was.
I’ve stopped believing 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 cleaner. Isn’t that still worth something?
