So, I put three meatballs on my plate, and my husband blew up at me—said I needed to lose weight.
We’ve been married six years, and in that time, I’ve had three kids. My eldest, Oliver, is five, my daughter, Poppy, is three, and the youngest, Alfie, is just six months old. My name’s Emily, and I’m thirty-six. I always wanted a proper family and kids, and on paper, I’ve got it all—but lately? I feel like I’m disappearing.
I met William when I was nearly thirty. All my girlfriends were already married by then, raising kids, talking about schools and mortgages, while I was stuck in the same routine—work, home, work. And then there he was—tall, confident, used to be a rugby player, now a department head at his firm. I never thought I’d catch his eye, but he kept asking me out, showing interest in what I liked. When he took me to meet his mum, I knew it was serious.
She was the sweetest woman—took to me straight away, called me “love” and practically nudged him to propose. We got married, and I was over the moon. Nine months later, Oliver arrived, and I went on maternity leave. Then Poppy, then Alfie. I never went back to work. My whole life is the kids now.
Oliver does football and art club, Poppy’s doing preschool at home with me. I think I’m a good mum—but here’s the thing: I’ve put on weight. A lot. Right now, I’m nearly 13 stone, when I used to be just under 8. Back then, I went to the gym twice a week. Now? With three little ones, finding even five minutes for myself is impossible.
I’ve tried doing home workouts, but the second I start, one’s thirsty, one needs the loo, and the youngest just wants to be held. Some days, I barely have the energy to get out of bed, let alone exercise.
William used to joke about it—called me his “curvy bunny,” said it was cute. But then the jokes stopped. He just started staring, sighing. Then the comments began.
Last week, we sat down for lunch. I put three small meatballs on my plate—I was starving, hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He snatched two off my plate, dumped them back in the pan, and said flatly, “You need to lose weight. Have you seen yourself?”
I froze. Then he added, “If I fall for someone else, it’ll be your fault. I want a woman I’m proud to be with. And you? Well, look at you.”
Felt like a slap. I just looked down, bit my lip. Kept thinking, *He’s right. I’ve let myself go. I’m ugly. Exhausted. Boring.*
I’d love a salon day, a massage, even just a coffee out—but we’ve no time or money. Everything goes on the kids, their clubs, rent, bills, William’s suits (he’s a manager, has to look the part). We help his mum too—her pension’s barely enough. Nothing’s left for me.
Sometimes, I’m in a changing room, trying on clothes, and I just cry. Nothing fits. Nothing looks right. I feel ugly and invisible.
William earns decently, but it never stretches far. And I’ve no income—I don’t work. It’s like a trap: no time to get a job, no energy to break free.
I’m terrified he’ll leave. I’ve seen how he looks at other women—slim, polished, effortless. I try. Honestly. But how am I meant to be “perfect”? All I do is cook, clean, wipe noses, change nappies.
Sometimes I think if it weren’t for his mum, he’d have walked out already. She always tells him, “Will, you’ve got a brilliant wife and mum to your kids. Don’t you dare wreck this over a few extra pounds.”
I cling to that. Hope someone will knock sense into him. That he’ll remember why he fell for me. That this is just a phase. That I’ll find myself again. But right now? I’m just scared.
Sometimes, I dream I’ll wake up as the old Emily—slim, happy, sure of herself. Then Alfie screams at 3 AM, and it’s back to nappies, bottles, mushed-up meals.
I’m exhausted. I don’t feel like a woman anymore. Just a function. A mum. A maid. A shadow.
And more and more, I keep thinking… *What if he really does leave?*
