**Diary Entry**
My name is Eleanor, and I’m thirty-six. Six years ago, I married and became a mother to three children. My eldest, Oliver, is five. My youngest daughter, Sophie, is three. And little Henry is just six months old. I don’t work—I stay home, raising them. The only time I had a job was right after university, before the first baby came. Since then, my life has been all about motherhood. And let me tell you, it’s not as easy as some make it seem.
I met Alexander when I was nearly thirty. By then, my friends were already settling down, while I was still shuffling between my office job and rented flat. He was tall, charismatic, confident—a former rugby player, now a department head. I never imagined a man like him would notice me. But then he invited me to meet his mother, and I knew it was serious.
Margaret, his mum, turned out to be unexpectedly warm. She took my hand and said, “Look after this one.” A few months later, we married.
When Oliver was born, I left my job and threw myself into motherhood. Then came Sophie, and now Henry. I’m with them every second. Oliver does football and art club, Sophie is still at home with me—I teach her myself. We don’t use nursery because I’m here. I truly believe I’m a good mother. My children are happy, safe, and loved.
But somewhere along the way, things started crumbling. After Henry, my weight changed. I’m around twelve stone now, though I used to be slim—just over seven. Back then, I hit the gym regularly, got my nails done, took care of myself.
Now? No time, no energy. If I try to exercise, Henry cries, Sophie needs a drink, Oliver wants to show me his latest drawing. Sometimes I can’t even get off the sofa—sleepless nights, breastfeeding, pure exhaustion. I’m not complaining. It’s just the truth.
At first, Alexander teased me. Called me “pudding,” “cuddly bear.” Said I’d gone softer—literally and otherwise. I laughed with him. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I’d plated three sausages—I’d been on my feet all morning, hadn’t eaten. Out of nowhere, Alexander snatched the fork from my hand, took two away, and said, cold as ice, “You need to lose weight.” Then he added, “If I end up with another woman, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
I just sat there, stunned. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight. Yes, I barely recognise myself in the mirror. But don’t I deserve even a shred of respect? I’ve given him three children. I gave up my career. I gave up *me*.
I’d love a manicure, a massage, a new dress. But there’s no time or money. Everything goes on the kids, their clubs, the mortgage. Alexander’s a manager—he has to look sharp. We even help his mum with bills. And me? I rub honey and oats on my face at night when the kids are asleep.
I haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. And when I do step into a shop? I leave in tears. Nothing fits. I’m just… not who I was.
I don’t believe I’ll ever be that slender girl again. My only hope is Margaret—that she won’t let Alexander break us. Because I don’t feel like a wife anymore. Just a mother and a maid. Isn’t that enough to be treated kindly?
**Lesson:** Love shouldn’t come with conditions—especially not from the person who vowed to stand by you. A ring doesn’t erase the need for respect.
