Coming out of the hospital, Eleanor bumped into a man in the doorway.
“Sorry,” he said, pausing to look at her. The next moment, his gaze turned cold and dismissive before he turned away, as if she no longer existed.
She’d seen that look too many times before. Slender, leggy women always got a different reaction—men’s eyes turned sticky and greedy instead of indifferent. The unfairness of it stung. Was it her fault she’d been born this way?
As a child, people had cooed over her round cheeks and chubby legs. But by school, she was always first in line during PE—not because she was quick, but because she was the biggest. The taunts began: “Porky,” “Tubby,” even “Peppa Pig.” Teachers saw, but no one intervened.
Eleanor tried diets, but hunger always won. Lost weight returned twice as fast. She had a pretty face, but her body ruined everything.
Teaching had been her dream, but she feared children would mock her behind her back. Instead, she studied nursing—when people were in pain, they didn’t care who helped them, so long as the pain stopped.
Her classmates were too busy with boyfriends to notice her. They’d hide behind her broad back during lectures to avoid the teacher’s gaze.
Shop windows taunted her with lovely dresses she’d never fit into. She wore baggy jumpers and skirts to hide her shape instead. But she was good at her job, and elderly patients adored her gentle hands.
Once, she went ice skating with friends. Teenagers snickered behind her—”Look, the walking meat factory!” She bit back tears.
Her mum tried setting her up. One man pretended not to see her; another groped her before she’d even sat down. When she shoved him into a puddle, he spat, “Who’d want you anyway?” After that, she gave up.
Online, she used Fiona from *Shrek* as her profile picture. When a man asked what she *really* looked like, she joked, “Like this, just not green.” He laughed, assuming she was teasing. She blocked him.
One day, a six-year-old boy barreled into her at work.
“Running’s not allowed here,” she said, catching his wrist.
“I wanted to slide on the lino,” he admitted.
“Where’s your dad?”
“With Gran. Where’s the loo?”
She led him. He gave her a cheeky grin on his way out, and she almost smiled.
“This one, I think,” he said, stopping at a door.
“You *think*?” She raised an eyebrow—it was the men’s ward.
He pointed to the correct door, laughing when she pretended to scold him. “What’s your name?”
“Oliver!” he said, just as the door opened. A tall, handsome man frowned down at him, then flicked a disinterested glance at Eleanor.
“Was he messing about?”
“He was fine,” she said curtly, walking away.
Next day, Oliver waved eagerly when he saw her. She smiled back.
Later, his grandmother, Margaret, confided in her—Oliver’s mother had left him years ago. “He keeps drawing pictures,” Margaret sniffed, showing Eleanor a sketch of a family: a small boy, a tall man… and a plump woman. “That’s *you*,” Margaret insisted.
Eleanor’s heart sank. *Even children see how big I am.*
A week later, Oliver invited her to his birthday. His dad, Edward, handed her an address stiffly. “If you’re free.”
She agonised over outfits, but no dress could hide her shape. At the party, a blonde model-type shot her a disdainful look. When wine “accidentally” spilled on the woman’s lap, she stormed out. Eleanor tried to leave too, but Edward insisted on driving her home.
In the car, she snapped, “I know you’re only doing this for Oliver. Don’t pretend—”
He kissed her. She shoved him away. “Am I some *novelty* to you?”
“You’re *beautiful*,” he said, startled.
Three weeks passed without a word. Then Edward showed up at her door—Oliver was ill.
As she treated him, Edward watched her with soft eyes.
“Let’s try again,” he said afterward. “Oliver adores you. And so do I.”
She hesitated. “What if his mother comes back?”
“Never. She’s remarried abroad.” He took her hand. “Say yes.”
She did.
Love doesn’t care about size—only the heart beneath. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, someone sees it.
