He snatched two meatballs off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. At thirty-six, how did I become “guilty” for having given birth to three children?
My name is Emily, and I’m thirty-six. I’ve been married for six years and am raising three kids. The eldest, Oliver, is five. The youngest girl, Lily, is three. And the baby, Noah, is just six months old. I don’t work—I stay home with the children. The only job I ever had was right after university, before maternity leave. The rest of the time, I’ve been a mum. And let me tell you, it’s not as easy as it seems.
I met William when I was nearly thirty. Back then, my friends were already settled into family life, while I was still juggling the office and renting a flat. He was tall, charismatic, confident—a former athlete, now a department manager. I never thought a man like him would look twice at me. But he invited me to meet his mother, and that’s when I knew it was serious.
Margaret, his mum, turned out to be kindness itself. She said straight away, “Take care of this girl.” We got married a few months later.
When Oliver was born, I quit my job and threw myself into motherhood. Then came Lily, and now, Noah. I never leave my children for a second. Oliver takes dance and art classes, while Lily stays home with me—I handle her early learning myself. We don’t do nursery because I’m here, and I truly believe I’m a good mum. My children are warm, happy, and never bored.
But at some point, everything started falling apart. After my third baby, I put on weight. Now I weigh around twelve and a half stone, though I used to be slim—just under eight stone. Back then, I went to the gym regularly, got manicures, took care of myself.
Now, I have no time or energy. If I try to do a quick workout, Noah starts crying, Lily asks for water, Oliver wants me to see his latest drawing. Sometimes, I can’t even get off the sofa—because of sleepless nights, because of feeding times, because I’m just exhausted. I’m not complaining; it’s just how things are.
At first, William joked about it. He called me “fluffy” or “teddy bear,” saying I’d grown softer—literally and figuratively. I laughed along. But then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I’d put three meatballs on my plate—I’d been on my feet all day without eating. Suddenly, William grabs my fork, takes two meatballs, and says with a blank face, “You need to lose weight.” Then he adds, “If I get tempted by another woman, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
I sat there, stunned. A sick feeling twisted in my stomach. Yes, I know I’ve gained weight. Yes, I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. But don’t I deserve even a little respect? I’ve given him three children. I gave up my career. I gave up myself.
I’d love to get a manicure, a pedicure, a massage. I’d love to buy a pretty dress. But we have no time or money for that. Everything goes on the kids, their classes, the mortgage. William is a manager—he has to look perfect. We even help his mum financially. And me? I make DIY face masks from oats and honey at night, once the children are asleep.
I haven’t bought anything new for myself in over a year. And if I step into a shop, I leave in tears—because nothing fits, because I’m not who I used to be.
I’ve lost hope that I’ll ever be slim again. My only lifeline is Margaret—maybe she won’t let William ruin our family. Because I don’t feel like a wife anymore. Just a mum and a housemaid. But isn’t that enough to be treated with kindness?
