“You’ve let yourself go. Put on weight. I don’t want to find someone else—I swear, there’s no one else. But this can’t go on. I want to admire the woman I love. And, well… I just can’t anymore. You’re boring,” her husband said.
Emily blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. Fifteen years together, and this was his thanks?
“What are you suggesting, then?” she asked. “Divorce?”
“Probably for the best.”
“And the kids?”
“I’ll help. Take them on weekends.”
“Oh, brilliant!” Emily snapped, wiping her cheeks. “You’re bored of your wife, so you’ll just dump the kids too? Become a part-time dad? You’ve got no shame, have you?”
—
Emily and James had met at a wedding. A distant cousin of hers was getting married, and James was there as a guest from the groom’s side. Despite the ten-year age gap, Emily knew instantly—he was it. Charming, smart, well-spoken, like something out of a fairy tale.
“Honestly, love, what would he see in you?” her mum had scoffed. “You’re plain as toast. And he’s a proper catch.”
Back then, Emily would sulk and turn away, refusing to even look at her. Only later did she realise how much damage her mum’s words had done—destroying her confidence before she’d even had a chance to build it.
But at twenty, heartsick over James, she hadn’t cared. They married after six months.
“He’ll leave you, mark my words,” her mum said. “You’re wasting your time. A man like that? And you with nothing but a sewing certificate. In my day, everyone could stitch a hem—hardly a career!”
“Cheers, Mum,” Emily shot back. “But I’m a married woman now. My life, my choices.”
For a few years, it was bliss—weekend trips, theatre outings, lazy Sundays. She’d sew little things, skirts or dresses, just for fun—James earned well, so money wasn’t an issue. Then came little Sophie, and motherhood swallowed Emily whole. She adored it—threw herself into playgroups, ballet classes, avoiding nursery because she wanted to do it all herself. She still squeezed in runs, kept fit.
“You lucky sod,” James’s family would say at gatherings. “Stunner of a wife, keeps the house perfect, raises your girl. When’s the next one coming?”
“Soon!” James would grin, squeezing Emily’s hand.
But “soon” turned complicated.
“Typical,” her mum would sneer over the phone. “Can’t even give him a son.”
“Thanks for that. Like I’m not crying enough already.”
After years of trying, they accepted it—Sophie was their miracle. And she was brilliant at ballet, winning competitions, Emily sewing costumes by hand. By nine, her coach said she could go far.
James adored her too. His beautiful wife, his talented daughter—his pride. And Emily *had* blossomed, learning to dress for her shape, with James’s salary covering the occasional facial or new outfit. After the house and Sophie, of course.
Then, out of nowhere—she was pregnant. Over the moon, both of them.
But the pregnancy was rough. Constant sickness, health scares, bed rest by the end. The birth nearly killed her. But their son—little Oliver—was perfect. Emily took years to recover. James hovered at first, then stopped—between Sophie’s training and the baby, he was stretched thin. Once, he suggested her mum help.
“No chance,” Emily said. “She’s never said a kind word in her life. Last thing I need is her poisoning Sophie’s mind.”
By the time Emily felt halfway normal, her dancer’s body was gone. No diet shifted the weight. She felt frumpy at thirty-five. Her mum’s voice hissed in her head: *Now he’ll really lose interest.*
But weirdly, James still called her beautiful. She doubled down on motherhood—swimming lessons for Oliver, competitions for Sophie. More weight crept on. No time for salons or nice clothes. But Sophie kept winning, Emily designing all her costumes.
One day, James looked her up and down. “You’ve really let yourself go. Must be a stone and a half over.”
“Try two!” Emily scoffed. “Not exactly surprising, is it? I’m not twenty anymore. And have you *seen* our schedule?”
“Make time. I want a wife I’m proud to look at.”
“Says the man losing his hair and gaining a gut,” she shot back.
At first, she brushed it off. Then the comments grew nastier—”unkempt,” “tired-looking”—until she cried herself to sleep.
—
Then came *the* talk. “I want to admire my wife. You don’t make the cut anymore.”
“You can’t throw away our family over this. Think of the kids.”
“Maybe we can fix it…” James mused. She latched onto that hope.
*I’ll get back to the woman he fell for*, she thought. *Youth is gone, but I’ll try.*
Crash dieting—no time for the gym, not with the kids. Counting every calorie, one weekly grapefruit. It worked—fast. She squeezed in facials, scrolled for trendy clothes during Sophie’s rehearsals.
Slowly, she neared her teenage weight. James’s only comment? “Good effort.” But the divorce talk stopped. She took it as a win.
“Mum, you’re not *eating*,” Sophie said, eyeing the grapefruit.
“You’ll understand when you’re older. I want to be slim again.”
“You weren’t even fat! Now you’re pale!”
The mirror agreed—sallow skin, hollow cheeks. More facials, more money, pretending it helped. The sewing machine gathered dust.
Six months in, she was gaunt. No glow, just exhaustion. Every cold knocked her flat. Sophie started policing *her* meals now.
*Funny*, Emily thought. *I’m the one being lectured by my teen about diets.*
She eased up. Five pounds came back overnight. James caught her on the scales.
“Back to 7st 10. But I feel better.”
“You’ll blow up again!” he snapped. “I finally thought I’d have a pretty wife!”
She sighed. Too tired to cry or fight.
“I’m trying my best—”
“With a face like a slapped arse,” he muttered. “Other women glow at thirty. You’re just… tired. Maybe I’ll find someone younger.”
“And what’s a twenty-five-year-old going to want with *you*?” she laughed coldly. “Face it, James—you’re not exactly prime material anymore. Teen models aren’t lining up.”
“And what’ll *you* do without me? Just a housewife. Can’t even call yourself a seamstress now. Who’d want you?”
That night, she took the kids to her mum’s. Instead of gloating, her mum hugged her. Emily swallowed tears.
Then she got to work—rented a tiny studio, started sewing skating costumes. Knew the scene inside out from Sophie’s career.
—
Now, listening to Sophie’s radio interview from her bright little workshop, pride swelled in her chest. Her girl—rising star, maybe even international one day. They’d celebrate with pizza later. She’d balanced her eating—still slim, but healthier. Happier.
“Who’s your role model?” the host asked.
“My mum,” Sophie said. “Three years ago, Dad left. Didn’t even pay child support. She worked day and night sewing to keep us afloat. She taught me never to quit. I admire her—and she’s the most beautiful woman I know.”
