“Look at what you’ve become!” William sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “A right doughball, not a woman!”
He stared at his wife, Emily, with thinly veired contempt, his heart heavy with resentment. All he wanted was to escape their dreary little house in Manchester.
“Darling, I’ve just given birth to our son. Please, give me time—I’ll lose the weight,” Emily pleaded, her voice trembling.
“All my mates’ wives had their babies ages ago and are back to looking trim. None of them swelled up like you did!”
Deep down, William loathed her. This wasn’t the woman he’d imagined beside him—someone lively, confident, always put together, even at home. Instead, here she stood, a sorry sight in her worn dressing gown, forever apologetic.
But then there was Sophie.
Sophie was nothing like Emily. Bold, stunning, self-assured—she was everything he wanted. Always waiting for him, always desperate for him. And of course, like any mistress, she dreamed of the day he’d leave his wife.
His fingers twitched toward the phone in his pocket.
“I’m off for a walk—might pick up some bread while I’m out,” he lied.
The moment he stepped outside, he dialled Sophie’s number.
“Hello, kitten,” he murmured. “Missed you something awful. Can’t stand being at home. Fancy a visit?”
“Hello, darling,” she purred. “Come over—I’ll be waiting.”
William returned with the bread, grimacing at the baby’s wails before muttering to Emily that work had called him in last minute—someone had fallen ill, and he had to cover their shift.
She nodded, understanding as ever, and moved to kiss him goodbye. But he sidestepped, pretending not to notice.
Alone in the quiet house, Emily sat in the dim glow of the lamp, turning his words over in her mind. She *had* changed since their wedding—stopped caring for herself, put on weight. The baby took all her time, so she snatched meals when she could, often late at night.
By eleven, she tried calling him. His phone was off.
She fed the baby and went to bed.
The next morning, William walked in and announced, without so much as a greeting, that he was leaving. He’d fallen for another woman. He didn’t love Emily anymore. But he wouldn’t abandon their son—he’d pay what he must.
It was impossible to describe the pain that tore through her then. Still, she didn’t weep. Didn’t beg.
A year passed.
Much had happened in that time. The baby had grown, toddling off to nursery. Emily found work, joined a gym, swam laps at the local pool. The weight began to shift—not all of it, but enough.
At the office, a kind colleague named Thomas took her under his wing. One day, he invited her to the cinema, then for walks in the park. Soon, they were courting properly, and within months, they married. He never minded her figure, only ever spoke of her gentle smile and kind heart.
He treated her boy as his own, and soon enough, the child called him Dad.
Then, one afternoon, she ran into an old neighbour from her days with William.
“Emily, you’ll never guess who I saw—William! He married that mistress of his, you know. She’s just had a baby—put on stone after stone. Now he’s always ‘working late.’”
Emily felt nothing. She hadn’t seen William in ages. He paid his paltry maintenance, barely bothered with their son. But none of it mattered.
She was happy now—truly happy—with Thomas, who’d turned out to be the husband and father she’d always deserved.
