“Look at what you’ve become!” Oliver scoffed, his eyes cold as they lingered on his wife. “More dumpling than woman!”
He despised the sight of her, this exhausted, round-faced creature in a moth-eaten dressing gown, forever shrinking into herself. No, this wasn’t the woman he’d married—not the lively, bright-eyed Margaret who had once turned heads. Now she was all apologies and weary glances, while across town, Fiona waited, sharp and beautiful, her laughter bold, her kisses insistent.
Margaret’s hands twisted in her lap. “Darling, I only just had our baby. Give me time—I’ll lose the weight.” Her voice trembled near tears.
“All my mates’ wives snapped back straight away. None of them let themselves go like this, not even while carrying.”
Oliver’s fingers itched for his phone. “I’m going for a walk,” he lied, “might fetch a loaf while I’m out.”
The moment the door shut behind him, he dialled Fiona. “Missed you, kitten,” he murmured. “Can’t stand another minute at home. Be there soon?”
A purring laugh answered him. “Hurry, then.”
He returned with the bread, grimaced at the baby’s wailing, and announced, “Got called in for a shift.”
Margaret nodded, rising to kiss him—but he sidestepped, feigning distraction.
By midnight, the child was asleep, the house silent. Margaret sat alone, turning his cruel words over like stones. Yes, she’d changed since their wedding day—too tired to care for herself, too busy with the baby to eat properly.
She tried calling him, but his phone was off.
By dawn, Oliver strode in and spoke without preamble: “I’m leaving. Found someone else. The boy stays with me.”
The words struck like a blow, yet Margaret held her tongue. She did not beg.
A year passed.
The child grew, toddled off to nursery. Margaret found work, joined a gym, and slowly, her shape softened into something kinder. She wasn’t slender, but she wore her curves with quiet pride.
At the office, a colleague named Thomas took to walking her home, then to the cinema, then to the park. Within months, they married. He never once winced at her figure—only smiled at the warmth in her eyes. Her boy, too, he loved as his own, and soon the lad called him “Dad.”
One afternoon, an old neighbour stopped her in the street. “Margaret! Saw Oliver the other day—married that mistress of his. She’s ballooned since the baby. Now he’s always ‘working late.'”
Margaret shrugged. The alimony he sent was paltry, his interest in their son rarer still. But it hardly mattered.
For the first time in years, she was happy.
