I’ve just put three meatballs on my plate—my husband snapped and told me I need to lose weight.
Six years of marriage, and we’ve had three children. Our eldest, Oliver, is five, our daughter Isabella is three, and the youngest, Henry, is just six months old. My name is Emily, and I’m thirty-six. I always dreamed of a big, happy family, and on paper, I’ve got it all. But lately, I feel like I’m disappearing.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. By then, all my friends were married—chatting about mortgages, schools, and ballet recitals while I was still stuck in the same routine: work, home, work. Then he walked into my life—tall, confident, a former rugby player, now a department head. I never thought he’d look twice at me, but he did. He asked me out, remembered my interests, and when he introduced me to his mum, I knew it was serious.
His mother was lovely from the start. She called me “love” straight away and nudged James to propose. We married, and I was happy. Nine months later, Oliver arrived, and I left my job. Then came Isabella, and now Henry. I haven’t worked since. My days belong to the children and the house.
Oliver goes to football and art classes. Isabella and I do preschool lessons at home. I think I’m a good mother. But there’s one problem—I’ve gained weight. A lot. I used to be 7st 10lb (49kg); now I’m nearly 12st 7lb (80kg). Before, I managed the gym twice a week. Now, with three kids, finding even five minutes for myself feels impossible.
I’ve tried home workouts—but someone’s always thirsty, needing the loo, or just wanting to be held. Some mornings, I can barely drag myself out of bed, let alone do squats.
At first, James joked—calling me “curves” or “my little bear.” It almost felt affectionate. Then the jokes stopped. He’d just stare, sigh. Then came the comments.
Last week, I sat down for lunch, starving, and served myself three small meatballs. In one sharp move, he snatched two off my plate, tossed them back into the pan, and said coldly,
“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 need a woman I’m proud to be with. Look at you—just look.”
The words hit like a slap. I pressed my lips together, staring at my plate. A voice in my head whispered, *He’s right. I’ve let myself go. I’m tired. Unattractive. Uninteresting.*
I’d love a salon day, a massage, even just a coffee out. But there’s no time or money. Everything goes on the kids—clubs, rent, bills, James’s suits (he’s management; he has to look sharp). We help his mum too—her pension barely covers a thing. Nothing’s left for me.
Sometimes I cry in changing rooms. Nothing fits right. I feel ugly and invisible.
James earns well, but it never stretches far. With no income of my own, I’m trapped—too busy to work, too drained to break free.
I’m terrified he’ll leave. I notice how he looks at other women—sleek, effortless, *thin*. I try, really. But between cooking, cleaning, wiping noses and nappies, “perfect” isn’t an option.
Without his mum, I think he’d have gone by now. She always says, *”James, you’ve got a brilliant wife and mother. Don’t throw it away over a few pounds.”*
I cling to her words. Maybe he’ll remember why he loved me. Maybe this is just a phase. Maybe I’ll find myself again. But right now? I’m just scared.
Sometimes I dream of waking up as the old Emily—slim, bright, sure of herself. Then Henry screams at 3 a.m., and it’s back to nappies, bottles, puree.
I’m exhausted. I don’t feel like a woman anymore. I’m a function. A mother. A maid. A ghost.
And one thought won’t leave me: *What if he really does leave?*
