“Look at what you’ve turned into!” Oliver sneered, staring at his wife as if she were a grotesque caricature. “More like a bloated pudding than a proper woman!”
He couldn’t stand the sight of her—exhausted by the very thought of their shared home.
“Darling, I’ve just had our baby. Give me time, I’ll lose the weight,” Emily whispered, her voice trembling.
“All my mates’ wives bounced back straight after birth. None of them let themselves go like this, not even while pregnant!”
Oliver despised her inwardly. This wasn’t the woman he’d imagined by his side—he wanted someone vibrant, sharp, always put together, even in pyjamas.
Instead, there she was: a sorry creature in a tatty dressing gown, her face forever etched with apology.
But then there was Lily—nothing like Emily.
Bold, unshakable, stunning!
Always waiting for him, burning with desire. And, like all mistresses, dreaming he’d leave Emily for good.
His fingers twitched toward the phone in his pocket.
“Just nipping out for a walk. Might grab some bread,” he lied.
The second he hit the pavement, he dialled Lily.
“Hey, kitten. Missed you. Can’t bear being at home. Coming over?”
“Hey, you. I’m waiting,” Lily purred.
He returned with the bread, winced at the baby’s wailing, and muttered to Emily, “Got called in. Someone’s ill—gotta cover.”
Working shifts made lying effortless.
Emily nodded, tried to kiss him—he dodged, pretending not to notice.
The baby slept. Emily sat alone, turning Oliver’s words over in her mind.
Yes, she’d changed since the wedding. Stopped caring. Grown soft.
The little one swallowed her time, leaving her scavenging meals at odd hours, even midnight feasts by the fridge.
The clock blinked 11 PM.
She dialled Oliver—his phone was dead.
After feeding the baby, she went to bed.
By morning, Oliver was back, slamming the door with news: he was leaving. Found someone else. Never loved her. But he’d fight for the child—throw her a pittance in upkeep.
Words couldn’t capture Emily’s devastation. But she didn’t beg. Didn’t cry.
A year passed.
The toddler started nursery. Emily found work, joined a gym, swam weekly. The weight crept off—not all, but enough.
At work, a colleague, James, took to helping her.
One day, he asked her to the cinema. Then the park. Soon, they were serious. Six months later, they married. James never bristled at her curves—he adored her smile, her eyes, the warmth of her.
Her boy? He loved him like his own. Before long, the child called him Dad.
One afternoon, an old neighbour spotted Emily.
“Em! Saw Oliver the other day. Guess what? He married that mistress of his! She’s had a baby—piled on the pounds. Now he’s always ‘working late.'”
Emily shrugged. She hadn’t seen Oliver in ages. The child support was laughable, his interest in their son scarce. But it didn’t matter.
Not when she had James—the father, the husband, the love she’d deserved all along.
