“You’ve let yourself go,” he said bluntly. “Gone a bit round the edges. Not that I’m looking elsewhere—swear on my life, I’m not. But this can’t go on. I want to be proud of the woman I love. And, well… I’m just not anymore. You’ve become dull.”
Emma blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall. Fifteen years together, and this was her reward?
“And what do you suggest?” she asked, voice tight. “Divorce?”
“Suppose that’s for the best…”
“What about the kids?”
“I’ll help. Weekends, school holidays—whatever they need.”
“Oh, how generous!” Emma wiped her eyes with a sharp swipe. “Bored of your wife, so you’ll swan off and play ‘weekend dad’? No shame at all, have you?”
—
Emma and Stephen met at a wedding. Her second cousin was marrying his mate from uni. Despite the ten-year age gap, Emma knew instantly—this was it. Charming, well-spoken, with a proper career, he might as well have ridden in on a white horse.
“Dream on, love,” her mum had scoffed. “You? With him? Bit plain, aren’t you? And he’s proper fit.”
Emma would sulk, twisting away to avoid her mother’s gaze. Years later, she’d realise those snide remarks chipped away at her confidence—never taught her self-worth.
But back then? Butterflies at the mere thought of him. Six months of dating, and they married. Emma was barely twenty.
“He’ll leave you, mark my words,” her mum warned. “Too good for you. You’ve only got that dressmaking certificate—barely a qualification!”
“Cheers, Mum. But I’m a grown woman now,” Emma shot back.
For years, life was golden—weekend trips, theatre outings, lazy Sundays in the Cotswolds. She sewed for fun, never needing the money; Stephen’s finance job covered everything. Then Lily arrived, and motherhood consumed her. She adored it—playgroups, ballet classes, homeschooled at first. Emma squeezed in runs, kept trim.
“Lucky git,” Stephen’s mates would grin at parties. “Stunner for a wife, keeps the house spotless, raises your kid. When’s the next one due?”
“Soon!” Stephen would wink.
But “soon” took years.
“Useless, you are,” her mum tutted over the phone. “Can’t even give him a son.”
“Thanks for that, Mum. Like I’m not crying enough already.”
Eventually, they accepted it—just Lily, then. And she thrived: figure skating prodigy by nine, costumes stitched by Emma’s own hand. Stephen doted on her, too. His pride: a beautiful wife, a dazzling daughter. Emma blossomed—learned to dress for her shape, indulged in the occasional spa day. After bills and Lily’s classes, of course.
Then—surprise! Pregnant at last. Pure joy… until the complications. Bed rest, terrifying birth. Little Henry, perfect and pink; Emma, shattered. Stephen hovered at first, then drifted. Juggling Lily’s competitions and nappy duty wore him thin.
“Ask your mum for help,” he’d suggest.
“Not a chance,” Emma snapped. “She’d only poison Lily’s ears like she did mine.”
Two years to recover. The weight? Stubborn. Her once-toned silhouette, softer. At thirty-five, she felt decades older. Her mother’s voice hissed in her head: *Now he’ll really lose interest.*
But oddly, Stephen stayed sweet, calling her his “English rose.” She dove deeper into motherhood—swimming lessons for Henry, competitions for Lily. The costs ballooned; Emma bore it all. Less time for herself, more pounds creeping on. Skincare routines lapsed, replaced by stitching sequins at midnight.
Then, one day, Stephen eyed her up and down.
“Bit… *frumpy*, aren’t you? Must be fifteen pounds extra.”
“Try twenty!” Emma scoffed. “Not twenty anymore, am I? And when exactly do I have time for gym sessions?”
“You could start. I fancy a glamorous wife.” Emma nodded at his receding hairline and paunch. “Pot, kettle. You’re not exactly Prince Charming these days.”
(His defence? “I’m management now. Need to look the part.”)
Jokes turned to tears when his “tidy yourself up” comments grew frequent. Then came *the* talk:
“This isn’t working. I miss being proud of you.”
“So destroy our family? Think of the kids!”
“Maybe there’s another way…” Stephen mused. Hope flared—if she could just be *that* girl again.
*I’ll starve it off*, she decided. No time for workouts, so the grapefruit diet it was. One meal a week, endless black coffee. The pounds melted; the compliments didn’t. Just a curt “good effort” from Stephen. But at least the divorce talk stopped.
“*Mum!*” Lily gasped at breakfast. “You’re not eating *again*?”
“You’ll understand when you’re older. I want to look nice.”
“You’re *not fat*! And now you’re all… grey.”
The mirror agreed. More facials, then—pricey, but if she squinted, her reflection looked fresher. (Or was that the credit card bill talking?)
Six months in, she was gaunt, brittle. Every cold knocked her flat. Even Lily, barely fourteen, scolded her: “Eat the *bloody toast*, Mum.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Emma.
A return to normal eating brought back five pounds. Stephen caught her weighing herself.
“Forty-eight kilos. But I feel better.”
“Back to square one!” he snarled. “I *deserve* a beautiful wife!”
Emma exhaled. No tears left.
“I’m trying *so hard*.”
“With the enthusiasm of a wet sock,” he sneered. “Other women glow at thirty-five. You? Dragging your feet. I’ll find a twenty-something who *appreciates* me.”
“And why would she want *you*?” Emma snorted. “Face it, Stephen—you’re not exactly pulling supermodels these days.”
“You’re *nothing* without me! Just a *housewife*. Gave up your little sewing hobby, didn’t you? Who’d even *want* you?”
That night, Emma packed the kids and showed up at her mum’s. No gloating this time—just a silent hug. No tears either. Just plans: job hunting, maybe skating costumes. She knew the scene inside out.
—
Now, in her sunlit sewing studio, Emma listened as Lily’s voice crackled through the radio:
“Who’s your role model?” the host asked.
“My mum,” Lily said, clear as a bell. “Three years ago, Dad left. Didn’t pay a penny. She sewed day and night to keep us afloat. Taught me to never give up. She’s my hero—and the most beautiful woman I know.”
Emma smiled, threading another sequin. They’d celebrate tonight—pizza, extra cheese. She’d gained back some weight, sure. But she felt *alive*. And that, finally, was enough.
