I’ll tell you what happened last Friday—it’s been playing on my mind ever since. He took two meatballs off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. Like, at thirty-six, I’m suddenly “to blame” for having three kids.
My name’s Emily, I’m thirty-six, and I’ve been married for six years. We’ve got three little ones—Oliver’s five, Sophie’s three, and baby Henry’s just six months old. I’m a full-time mum, always have been, except for that one job I had right after uni before the first baby came along. And let me tell you, it’s not as easy as people think.
I met Alexander when I was nearly thirty. All my mates were already settled down, and there I was, still juggling an office job and a rented flat in London. He was tall, confident, the kind of bloke who stood out—former rugby player, department head at work. Never thought he’d look twice at me, but he did. Then he introduced me to his mum, and that’s when I knew it was serious.
Margaret—his mum—was lovely right from the start. She took one look at me and said, “You hold onto this one, Alex.” We got married a few months later.
When Oliver was born, I quit my job and threw myself into being a mum. Then came Sophie, and now little Henry. I’m with them every second—Oliver’s into football and art club, Sophie’s still at home with me, and we’ve not even thought about nursery because, well, I’m here. And I like to think I’m doing alright by them. They’re happy, cared for, loved.
But something’s shifted. After Henry, the weight just… stayed. I’m about twelve and a half stone now—used to be a slim seven and a half, back when I had time for the gym, manicures, all of it. These days? If I try to do a few squats, Henry cries, Sophie needs a drink, Oliver’s shouting for me to see his latest masterpiece. Sometimes I’m just too knackered to move—up all night feeding, running on fumes. I’m not complaining, just saying how it is.
At first, Alex joked about it. Called me his “cuddly bear,” said I was softer in every way. I laughed along. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I’d dished up three meatballs for myself—hadn’t eaten all day, been on my feet since six. Out of nowhere, Alex snatched the fork from my hand, took two off my plate, and said, dead serious, “You need to lose weight.” Then, like it was nothing: “If I end up with someone else, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
I just sat there, stunned. Felt sick. Yeah, I know I’ve put on weight. Yeah, I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. But do I not deserve a bit of respect? I’ve given him three kids. Gave up my career. Gave up *me*.
I’d love a manicure, a massage, a nice dress. But where’s the time? The money? It all goes on the kids, their clubs, the mortgage. Alex is a manager—has to look the part. We even help his mum out sometimes. And me? I’m slapping on oatmeal and honey face masks at midnight when the kids are finally asleep.
Haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. Walk into a shop sometimes, leave in tears—nothing fits, nothing’s *me* anymore.
I’ve stopped believing I’ll ever be that slim girl again. Only thing keeping me going is Margaret—maybe she’ll talk some sense into him. Because right now? I don’t feel like his wife. Just the mum, the housekeeper. And is that really not enough to be treated decently?…
