Once, long ago in the quiet lanes of Yorkshire, a husband looked at his wife and sighed.
“You’ve let yourself go,” he said plainly. “Grown stout. I don’t wish to find another, I swear it—there’s no one else. But this cannot go on. I want to admire the woman I love. And you—well, I’m afraid I no longer can. You bore me now.”
Margaret blinked quickly, willing the tears away. This was his gratitude after fifteen years!
“And what do you propose?” she asked tightly. “A divorce?”
“It might be for the best.”
“And the children?”
“I’ll help. Take them at weekends.”
“Oh, how simple!” Margret scowled, swiping at her cheeks. “You grow weary of your wife, so you cast the children aside too! A Sunday father, is it? Have you no shame?”
***
They had met at her cousin’s wedding. Margaret was just twenty, still dreamy-eyed and easily swept away. Among the groom’s guests stood Jeremy—ten years her senior, handsome as a storybook knight, with sharp wit and polished manners.
“Oh, poppet, don’t set your sights so high,” her mother had sniffed. “You’re soft in the head and plain as porridge. Jeremy’s a fine catch—far above your station.”
Margaret would puff out her lips and turn away, refusing to meet her mother’s eye. It wasn’t until much later she understood how those words had hollowed out her confidence. But youth is blind to such wounds.
For months, her heart fluttered at the mere thought of him. They wed within the year.
“He’ll leave you, mark my words,” her mother warned. “Too lofty a man for the likes of you. You’ve only your little sewing course—hardly a trade. Proper women did that in my day, and better!”
“Thank you, Mother, for your kindness,” Margaret shot back. “But I’m a married woman now. My choices are my own.”
For a time, they lived as if on holiday—weekend trips to the countryside, evenings at the theatre. She sewed for pleasure, not need; Jeremy’s wages kept them comfortable. Then little Eliza arrived, and Margaret lost herself in motherhood. She thrived in it—playschool, then skating lessons, refusing to send her daughter to nursery when she could teach her herself. She still found moments for morning jogs, kept herself trim.
“What luck you have, Jeremy!” his family would say. “A beauty who keeps your home so well, raises your child so carefully. A full cup indeed! When’s the next?”
“Oh, we’ll manage it,” Jeremy would smile, glancing fondly at his wife.
But the second child did not come easily.
“See how you are!” her mother crowed whenever she called. “Can’t even give your husband an heir.”
“Your support warms me, truly,” Margaret muttered through gritted teeth. “As if I don’t weep over it enough.”
Years passed before they resigned themselves—Eliza would be their only. The girl took to skating brilliantly, and Margaret poured her soul into it. She stitched costumes by hand, cheered louder than any at competitions. By nine, Eliza’s coach swore she’d go far.
Jeremy adored her too. His elegant wife and talented daughter were his pride. Margaret had learned to dress well, to care for herself—after the household and Eliza, of course.
Then, unexpectedly, she fell pregnant. Joy overflowed—after so long! But the months that followed were gruelling. Illness, threats to her health, bedrest near the end. The birth itself almost took her. But their son—long-awaited, beloved little James—was born hale. Margaret recovered slowly.
At first, Jeremy hovered, then his attentions waned—Eliza’s training, James’ care, it all fell to him. He suggested her mother might help.
“Never,” Margaret snapped. “A lifetime of cruel words—I won’t have her poison Eliza’s ears.”
Two years passed before Margaret regained her strength. But the slim figure of her youth was gone. No diet or exercise could restore it. By thirty, she felt ancient. Her mother’s voice hissed in her mind: “Now he’ll surely lose interest.”
Yet time rolled on, and Jeremy still called her beautiful. She gave herself wholly to motherhood—James to swimming and puzzles, Eliza to competitions, where she often won.
Margaret swelled with pride, stitching each costume herself. Secretly, she dreamed of crafting something magnificent—though the coach would likely scoff.
One evening, Jeremy eyed her critically.
“You’ve grown slack. Must be fifteen pounds extra.”
“Twenty, perhaps!” she quipped. “Hardly a wonder—I’m not twenty anymore. And when do I have time for myself?”
“You ought to try. I want a wife I can admire.”
“You’re no spring chicken either,” she retorted, nodding at his thinning hairline.
The years had touched him too—though he blamed his new managerial role. “A man must look the part.”
At first, she brushed it off with jokes, but when his jabs grew frequent—”unkempt,” “slovenly”—her laughter turned to tears.
***
Then came that wretched evening when he confessed she no longer stirred his heart.
“This is no reason to break our family,” she pleaded. “Think of the children.”
“Perhaps we might salvage it,” he mused. And she clung to that hope like driftwood in a storm.
I’ll make myself lovely again, she thought. Youth can’t be reclaimed, but I’ll try.
She starved—no time for the gym between the children’s needs. Every calorie was counted; Sundays, she ate nothing but half a grapefruit. The weight melted away, but she pressed on. Found minutes for facials between errands. Ordered dresses online while waiting for Eliza at the rink.
Slowly, she neared her girlhood weight—seven stone. Jeremy only grunted, “Well done.” But the talk of parting ceased. She took it as victory.
“Mum, you’re vanishing!” Eliza scolded, eyeing the grapefruit.
“You’ll understand when you’re older. I want to be slim again.”
“You weren’t fat! Now you’re just pale!”
Margaret noticed it too—another reason for more facials. Whether they worked hardly mattered; paying the fee made the mirror kinder. Placebo, perhaps.
She kept this up for half a year. Gaunt as she’d never been, it brought no beauty. “Dried haddock,” she’d sigh at her reflection. No cream could smooth skin like youth. Every cold left her bedridden. Even Eliza chided her to eat.
Imagine, she thought wryly, the daughter scolding the mother over diets.
She eased back into proper meals—and just as swiftly, five pounds returned. Jeremy caught her on the scales.
“Eight stone again. But I feel better.”
“You’ll bloat back to a cow!” he snapped. “I thought I’d have a pretty wife at last!”
She sighed—too spent for tears or shouts. “I’ve tried so hard.”
“And with a face like vinegar. Some women glow at thirty—always merry. You? Forever worn. I work like a plough horse—I deserve beauty. I’ll find a lass of twenty-five.”
“And what would she want with you?” Margaret huffed. “Who’d endure you? Listen, I’m weary of this. If I’m not enough—divorce me. But you aren’t getting younger either. No model of eighteen will glance your way.”
“What life have you without me? Just a housewife. Not even a seamstress now. Your college was a joke! Who’d want you?”
That night, she took the children to her mother’s. To her shock, the woman hugged her without scorn. Margaret swallowed her sobs. And she began to plan—where to find work, better yet, commissions for skating costumes. She knew the craft inside out, thanks to Eliza.
***
Years later, in her bright little sewing studio, Margaret listened as Eliza gave a radio interview. Pride swelled—here was the region’s rising star, perhaps soon bound for championships. They’d celebrate tonight with pizza. She’d mended her eating habits; some weight had returned, but she looked—and felt—better for it.
“Who inspires you?” the host asked.
“My mum,” Eliza said firmly. “Three years ago, she and Dad divorced. He left us—not a penny since. She sewed day and night to keep us afloat. She taught me never to yield. I admire her more than anyone—and she’s the most beautiful woman I know.”
