My friend Emma is an incredible cook. Divine, absolutely splendid—she can turn a simple courgette and potato into something extraordinary! And her baking! That perfectly roasted meat of all kinds!
But that’s not what I meant to talk about.
Emma carries extra weight. Quite a bit, really, but she’s genuinely beautiful—rosy-cheeked, smooth-skinned, full of energy, no shortness of breath, no high blood pressure. She’s been married to her husband, Nigel, for fifteen years. And for all fifteen of those years, Nigel has delightedly, passionately mocked her for her weight. Always inventive, always creative. In front of friends. In front of strangers. He even comes up with so-called affectionate nicknames—my little heifer, my hippo. Oh, she stepped on my foot, now my whole leg’s broken!
He’d rave about fitness influencers or anyone lucky enough to have good genes. A few of those questionable compliments even landed on me, and I foolishly tried to defend Emma, bringing up metabolism, genetics, and body types—utterly pointless.
Emma always kept her composure, even smiling at his jokes. She’d even poke fun at herself. But after their daughter was born, things got worse. The girl inherited Emma’s “apple” shape, and as she neared puberty, Nigel switched targets: “How much are you eating? You’ll end up like your mother! Look at yourself—don’t you want to be pretty instead of some shapeless cow?”
And that’s when Emma finally snapped. She talked to him once, twice, a third time—said this wasn’t right. But of course, it went nowhere. Then, about a year ago, there was an explosion. I wasn’t there, but I heard the story. When Nigel launched into his usual routine about Emma’s figure in front of company, she suddenly said: “Nigel, 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 finished.”
She called a cab and left. Nigel kept laughing and joking, in no rush to follow her. “Where’s she going to go?” he said. “She’ll rant and then cool off. She knows she looks like an overripe tomato.” Even their friends tried telling him he was wrong, that Emma looked lovely—but no use.
When he got home, Emma wasn’t there. Neither was their daughter. Turns out, they’d packed their things and gone to Emma’s parents’ house in another part of town. The school commute was a hassle, but they made do. The second blow came when Emma filed for divorce. Nigel couldn’t believe it: “What, over a few jokes? Impossible! She must be seeing someone!” Though, he scoffed, “who’d want someone that fat?”
You’ve probably guessed by now. There was no other man—Emma had just finally had enough. She worked a high-paying job at a large firm, had a solid income, and with help from her parents, bought a nice two-bed flat in a new development for herself and her daughter—without waiting for the marital home to be divided.
After the settlement, Nigel ended up with a one-bed flat. He had to sell the car and split the money. With his modest salary, alimony for the next three years left him scraping by. But the real tragedy, as he tells his friends, is that after fifteen years of her cooking, he’s now stuck with ready meals or dinners at his mum’s. “Her roast chicken haunts my dreams,” he moans. “Her pies! Rows of pies with all sorts of fillings! I wake up weeping.”
He’s tried dating. “Found some woman. Cooks slop, completely inedible. Sure, she’s slim—relatively, at our age there aren’t exactly supermodels left. Why not a younger one? Well, salary’s too small, and let’s face it, I’m no Adonis myself—gut, bald spot, out of breath. Fifty’s fifty.”
The real sting, he says, is that Emma’s lost weight. Not drastically, but noticeably—a couple of sizes down. Mutual friends say she’s changed how she cooks for herself and their daughter—still delicious, but more veg-based. Neither cared much for meat, and the sweet pies? That was always Nigel’s demand.
Then, recently, he bumped into her at the supermarket. “Speechless,” he admits. He approached her: “You’re looking… all right. Actually, I quite like you like this. Fancy giving us another go?”
“Like hell,” she said.
Furious, he told his mates: “I come to her with an open heart, and she shuts me down! If it weren’t for me, she’d still be that cow—ungrateful, cold-hearted… woman.”
The lesson? A man who mistakes cruelty for humour may one day find himself starving—not just for a good meal, but for the kindness he never deserved.
Julia Kaufman.
