**Diary Entry**
He took two of my meat pies off my plate and told me I ought to lose weight. After six years of marriage, I’ve given him three children, and now I’m terrified of being left alone.
I’m thirty-six. In those six years, I’ve become a mother to three wonderful children—Thomas is five, little Evelyn’s three, and our youngest, Oliver, is barely six months old. I always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how exhausting it would be—physically, mentally, just… humanly. Life feels like an endless race, and I’m always gasping for breath.
I met William when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already married, raising children, while I juggled work and solitude. Then there he was—tall, athletic, effortlessly charming. Back then, he held a good position, managing a department at a law firm. I never thought a man like him would look twice at someone like me.
I knew he was serious when he introduced me to his mother. Margaret—gentle, refined—took to me immediately. She adored me, practically nudged him toward proposing. We married quickly, almost in a rush. Then came the babies.
First Thomas, and I left my job. Then Evelyn. Now Oliver. I never went back. The children rely on me entirely—Thomas has his football club, Evelyn needs home learning, and Oliver’s always in my arms. I love them dearly, but I’ve got nothing left—no energy, no… *me*.
I once weighed seven stone. Went to the gym, ran mornings, took care of myself. Now I’m nearly thirteen. My days are porridge, nappies, homework, baths, tantrums—on endless repeat. No time or strength for exercise. Even when I try, the children cling, climbing onto my back, tugging my sleeves.
Will used to joke about it—called me his “pudding,” his “cuddly bear.” But the laughter faded. Then his patience did.
Last Friday, at supper, I served myself three meat pies. He glanced over, silently took two, and put them back in the pan.
*”You should slim down. If I find myself tempted by another woman, it’ll be on you.”* He said it so calmly, without even looking at me.
I froze. Like a fist to the chest. I *know* I’ve changed. That I’m tired. That I’m not the girl he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to this family? That I don’t sleep because one’s teething, another won’t eat peas, and the third lost his workbook *again*? Don’t I deserve *some* kindness?
I’d love a massage, a haircut, nails done. But there’s no spare cash—it all goes on the kids, clubs, food, bills, helping his mum. Will earns well, but expenses pile up. And *he* must look sharp—he’s the boss. Me? I can make do with old jumpers. But lately, I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. Dresses gape. Jeans won’t button. Everything feels clumsy, wrong.
Sometimes I don’t feel like a woman at all. Just a shadow. Feeding, cleaning, soothing—but never *feeling*. Never daring to dream. Only Margaret keeps us hanging on. She visits, calls, helps with the children. And I pray she won’t *let* him leave. Won’t let him wreck everything I’ve lived for these six years.
Sometimes I’m scared—what if he packs a bag one day and goes? Leaves me with three children and the shell of who I was? I don’t ask for much. Just… I wish he’d remember why he loved me. And see—I’m still her. Just so, *so* tired.
