Her name was Emily, and at thirty-six, she’d spent the last six years married with three children. Her eldest, Henry, was five. The youngest, Sophie, was three. And the baby, Oliver, had just turned six months old. Emily hadn’t worked since university, except for a brief stint before her first maternity leave. Her days were filled with nappies, nursery rhymes, and never-ending chores. It wasn’t as simple as people assumed.
She’d met James when she was nearly thirty. Back then, her friends were settling down while she juggled office life and her tiny London flat. He was tall, confident, with a magnetic charm—former athlete, now a department head. She never thought a man like him would notice her. But when he introduced her to his mother, Margaret, she knew it was serious.
Margaret had been warm from the start, pulling Emily aside to whisper, “Look after my boy.” They married within the year.
When Henry arrived, Emily quit her job without hesitation. Then came Sophie, and now Oliver. She never left their sides—Henry had football and art club, Sophie learned her letters at home. No nursery, no nannies. She prided herself on being a good mother. Her children were happy, safe, loved.
But after Oliver’s birth, things changed. The weight stayed. Eighty kilos now, where she’d once been fifty. Back then, she’d gone to the gym, had her nails done, worn fitted dresses. Now, any attempt at exercise was interrupted—Oliver cried, Sophie needed juice, Henry demanded praise for his latest crayon masterpiece. Some days, exhaustion pinned her to the sofa. No complaints—just reality.
At first, James teased her. “My little cupcake,” he’d say, chuckling. “Softer in every way.” She laughed along. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, she served herself three sausages at lunch—she’d barely eaten all morning. James snatched two off her plate without a word, his voice icy. “You need to lose weight.” Then, crueller still: “If I find someone else, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
She sat frozen. Yes, she knew she’d gained weight. Yes, the mirror felt foreign. But did that erase six years of sacrifice? Three children. A career shelved. Her own identity buried under laundry and packed lunches.
She’d love a manicure, a new dress, an hour to herself. But time and money went to the children—their clubs, their needs. James, the high-flying executive, needed sharp suits. They even helped his mum with bills. Emily? She rubbed honey masks into her skin at midnight, once the house was silent.
She hadn’t bought clothes in over a year. Shopping trips ended in tears—nothing fit the woman she’d become. The woman she barely recognised.
Hope now rested on Margaret’s kindness. Maybe she’d remind James of all Emily had given. Because these days, she didn’t feel like a wife—just a mother, a maid. Wasn’t that worth respect?
The lesson crept in slow but sure: love shouldn’t measure worth by dress sizes or scales. True partnership sees the strength in sleepless nights, the beauty in selfless giving. And if it doesn’t? Perhaps the weight to shed isn’t on the body, but the heart.
