He took two sausages off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. After six years of marriage, I’d given him three children—now I was terrified he’d leave me.
I’m thirty-six. In six years, I’ve become a mother to three wonderful children: Oliver, five, Matilda, three, and little Henry, just six months old. I always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how hard it would be—physically, emotionally, in every way possible. Life has become an endless race, and I’m always running on empty.
I met Alexander when I was nearly thirty. All my friends had married years ago, raising their own families while I juggled work and loneliness. Then he appeared—tall, athletic, effortlessly charming. Back then, he already had a good position, heading 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. Martha was kind, refined, and instantly put me at ease. She adored me—so much so that she practically nudged him toward proposing. We married quickly, almost impulsively. Then came the succession of maternity leaves.
First Oliver arrived, and I left my job. Then Matilda, and finally Henry. I never went back to work. The children are my life now—the older two aren’t in nursery, Oliver has his football clubs, I teach Matilda at home, and there’s always the baby in my arms. I love my children; they’re wonderful. But I’ve got nothing left—no energy, no… me.
I used to weigh 7st 10lbs. I went to the gym, jogged in the mornings, took care of myself. Now I’m nearly 12st. My days are nothing but porridge, nappies, spelling tests, laundry, dinner, bedtime tantrums—the same cycle, over and over. There’s no time or energy left for exercise. And when I try, the children swarm me, tugging at my clothes, clambering onto my lap.
At first, Alex joked about it. He called me his “cuddly bear,” his “sweet little dumpling.” But gradually, the jokes faded. And then, so did his patience.
Last Friday, we sat down to dinner. I put three sausages on my plate. He glanced over, wordlessly took two back, and put them in the pan.
“You need to lose weight. If I end up with another woman, it’ll be your fault,” he said flatly, avoiding my eyes.
I froze. It felt like a punch to the chest. I know I’ve changed. I know I’m exhausted. I’m not the woman he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to our family? That I don’t sleep because one’s teething, another won’t eat her peas, and the third keeps losing his schoolbook? Don’t I deserve just a little kindness?
I’d love a massage, a manicure, to dye my roots. But there’s no money. Everything goes on the children—lessons, food, the mortgage, helping his mum. Alex earns well, but our expenses are endless. And of course, he has to look sharp—he’s the boss. Meanwhile, I can manage in an old dressing gown. Except I barely recognise myself in the mirror. My dresses don’t fit. My jeans won’t button. Everything feels wrong.
Sometimes, I don’t feel like a woman anymore. Just a shadow—feeding, cleaning, tidying, but never feeling, never daring to dream. Only Martha keeps us together. She calls, visits, helps with the children. And I hope—I pray—she won’t let him walk away. Won’t let him destroy everything I’ve lived for these past six years.
Sometimes I’m terrified: what if one day he packs his bags and leaves? Leaves me with three children and the ghost of who I used to be? I don’t ask for much. Just for him to remember why he loved me. To see that I’m still her. Just so, so tired.
*In the end, love shouldn’t strip you bare—it should give you the strength to grow. A true partner doesn’t measure your worth by your waistline, but by the weight of your heart.*
