He took two of my sausages and told me I needed 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. Six years of marriage, three beautiful kids: Thomas is five, little Emily’s three, and the baby, Oliver, is just six months old. I always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how exhausting it would be—physically, emotionally, just everything. Life feels like an endless race, and I’m always running on empty.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already married with children, while I was just working, coming home to an empty flat. Then there he was—tall, athletic, charismatic. Back then, he had a good job—partner at a law firm. 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 was warm, sophisticated—she made me feel at ease instantly. She adored me and practically pushed him to propose. We married quickly, almost in a whirlwind. Then came the babies.
First Thomas, and I left my job. Then Emily, then Oliver. I never went back to work. The kids are my whole life: the older two aren’t in nursery, Thomas has football practice, I homeschool Emily, and the baby’s always in my arms. I love my children—they’re wonderful—but there’s nothing left of me. No energy, no… *me.*
I used to weigh seven stone. Went to the gym, jogged every morning, took care of myself. Now I’m nearly twelve. My days are just nappies, lessons, laundry, tantrums—over and over. No time or strength for exercise. If I ever try, the kids swarm me, tugging at me, climbing into my lap.
James used to joke about it. Called me “his sweet dumpling,” “his little muffin.” But bit by bit, the teasing stopped. Then so did his patience.
Last Friday, we were having dinner. I served myself three sausages. He looked at my plate, silently took two back, and put them in the pan.
“You need to slim down. If I end up with someone else, it’ll be your fault,” he said, not even looking at me.
I froze. Like I’d been punched in the chest. I know I’ve changed. That I’m tired. That I’m not the woman he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to this family? That I don’t sleep because one’s teething, one won’t eat his peas, and the other lost his spelling book again? Don’t I deserve a little kindness?
I’d love a massage, a manicure, to dye my roots. But there’s no money. It all goes on the kids—lessons, food, the mortgage, helping Margaret. James earns well, but expenses pile up. And of course, he has to look sharp—he’s a partner, after all. Me? I can just wear my old dressing gown.
Except I barely recognise myself in the mirror now. Dresses don’t fit. Jeans won’t button. Everything feels wrong.
Sometimes I don’t even feel like a woman anymore. Just a ghost. Feeding, cleaning, tidying—but never *feeling*, never daring to dream. The only one holding us together is Margaret. She visits, helps with the kids. I pray she won’t let him leave. Won’t let him destroy everything I’ve poured my life into these past six years.
Sometimes I’m terrified—what if he just packs his things and walks out? Leaves me with three children and the shell of who I was? I don’t ask for much. Just wish he’d remember why he loved me. And see—I’m still that woman. Just so, so tired.
