Leaving the hospital, Emily bumped into a man at the door.
“Sorry,” he said, pausing to glance at her. Then, in an instant, his expression turned dismissive, and he looked away as if she were invisible.
How many times had she caught that same look? Men’s eyes lingered on tall, slim women—sticky and greedy, never empty or indifferent. The unfairness burned. Was it her fault she’d been born this way?
As a child, everyone cooed over her chubby cheeks and rounded frame. In school, she was always at the front of the line in PE—the biggest girl in class. “Piggy,” “Pumpkin,” “Winnie the Pooh”—names that stung, though some were worse. Teachers saw the teasing but did nothing.
She tried every diet under the sun, but hunger always won. The weight left, then crept back. She was pretty, really—just hidden under curves she couldn’t shake.
Teaching had been her dream, but she imagined children whispering cruel nicknames behind her back. So she studied nursing instead. When people were in pain, they didn’t care who helped—just that the help came.
Her classmates were too busy with boyfriends and weddings to notice her. They’d shove her to the front row, shielding themselves behind her broad frame during lectures.
Shop windows taunted her with dresses she’d never fit into. She wore loose jumpers and wide skirts, hiding what she could. But she was good at her job—gentle with needles, kind to elderly patients.
Once, she joined friends at the ice rink. Teenagers snickered. “Look, it’s the Michelin mascot,” one jeered. Their laughter chased her home in tears.
Her mum set her up with friends’ sons. One took a single glance and pretended not to see her. Another groped her before introductions were over. She shoved him. He sprawled into a puddle. “Who’d want you anyway?” he yelled. She never went on another date.
Online, she used Fiona from *Shrek* as her profile picture. A bloke messaged, “Bet you’re not *that* green in real life.” When she said she looked the part—minus the colour—he laughed. “Too many admirers, eh?” She blocked him.
Then, in the hospital corridor, a six-year-old boy barrelled into her.
“Slow down! Sick people are resting,” she chided, catching his arm.
“I wanted to slide on the lino,” he admitted.
“Who’s with you?”
“Dad. We’re visiting Gran. Where’s the loo?”
She led him. “Can you manage?”
He gave her a look—same as the men. But from him, it was funny.
When he emerged, she asked, “Which room’s your gran in?”
“Er… that one?” He pointed vaguely.
“Really? Or do you just not know numbers?”
“I *do*!” He huffed, then grinned. “It’s *that* one!”
“Cheeky!” She pretended to scold. “What’s your name?”
“Liam!”
A tall, handsome man stepped out of Room 5, frowning. “Liam, what took so—?” He spotted Emily, skimmed her with one indifferent glance. “Was he bothering you?”
She’d seen that look a thousand times. “He was fine. Don’t scold him.”
The next day, Liam’s dad walked right past her. She stuck her tongue out at his back—only for Liam to turn, giggling, and give her a thumbs-up.
During rounds, she visited Room 5. “You look well today, Mrs. Whitmore. Liam visited?”
“You met him? Lovely boy. I’d give anything to see him grow up.”
“You *will*,” Emily said firmly.
“God willing. Breaks my heart—growing up without his mum.”
“She… passed?”
“Ran off. Model, she was. Got a ‘better offer’ abroad. Left Liam with us.” Mrs. Whitmore sighed. “My son—his stepdad—he’s a good man. But the women he dates? All looks, no heart. Liam hates them.”
That night, Emily couldn’t stop thinking about it. Next visit, Mrs. Whitmore was sniffling.
“You mustn’t upset yourself,” Emily warned.
“I’m *not*.” She held up a drawing—Liam holding hands with a man and a *much* larger woman. “He’s picked you for his mum.”
Emily’s stomach dropped. *Even a child sees me as the big one. A man like that would never want me.*
But Liam kept seeking her out. One day, he marched up. “Gran says I’m in ‘safe hands’ with you. Is that true?”
“I hope so.”
“Good. My birthday’s next week. You’re invited!”
“I’d love to, but I’ll need your dad’s permission.”
Liam dashed off. Next day, his dad—*James*—was waiting.
“Liam won’t take no for an answer,” James said, handing her an address. “Saturday, 1 PM. If you’re free.”
*One week to lose five stone,* she thought wildly.
At home, her mum cheered. “Go! Men overlook what boys see. Maybe this’ll be your chance.”
“James barely looks at me,” Emily muttered.
“Yet he’s raising another man’s son. That tells you something.”
On the day, she fussed with her hair, her dress, her *everything*. No amount of mascara hid the truth.
Liam flung the door open, hugging her waist. “You came!”
Inside, a blonde—*of course*—sat beside James, arching a perfect brow at Emily. Mrs. Whitmore made introductions, her tone icy on “James’s *friend*, Stacy.”
Then—*oops*—wine “accidentally” spilled on Stacy’s lap. The blonde stormed out. Emily tried to follow.
“Stay,” James said. “Mum made cake.”
In the car later, silence.
“You didn’t have to drive me,” Emily said.
“Mum would skin me if I didn’t.” He sighed. “She’s scheming to marry us off.”
“Well, don’t worry. I’m not in love with you.” *Liar.*
Suddenly, he kissed her. She shoved him.
“Had enough of size-zero blondes? Fancy a chubby joke?”
“You’re *beautiful*,” he said—like he meant it.
Three weeks passed. Then her mum said, “A man came by. Looked worried.”
It was James. Liam was sick.
She raced over. The boy beamed despite his fever. “You’ve got safe hands, right?”
“Promise.” The injection barely made him flinch.
James watched her, really *looked*—for the first time. Her face burned.
Driving her home, he asked, “Coffee sometime? Properly?”
“Is this for Liam?”
“No. For *me*. You’re warm. Kind. Unfake. Liam adores you. And I—” He hesitated. “His mother signed away her rights. She’s remarried. So… will you?”
“Yes.”
Funny thing, love. It turns “too much” into “just right.” A duckling into a swan. A lonely heart into a home. Sometimes, you just need the right person to see it.
