April 12
Im thirty, and at 120kg I feel like a brick wall has been built between me and the world. I suspect a hormonal glitch or some metabolic fault, but the idea of travelling to a specialist in Manchester feels absurdly distant and humiliatingly expensive.
I live in Littleford, a tiny, forgotten village perched on the edge of the county like the last speck on a map. Time here doesnt run by the clock but by the seasons: it freezes solid in the bleak winter, thaws into a soggy mess in spring, lingers lazily in the summer heat and sighs under dreary rain in autumn. In that slow, syrupy flow my life as Lucy has been sinking.
Every day I work as a nursery assistant at the Little Bell playgroup. The air is forever scented with baby powder, boiled porridge and the damp smell of wet floors. My big, gentle hands can soothe a crying tot, fling a fresh set of sheets onto a cot, and mop up a spill without making the child feel guilty. The children adore me; they cling to my softness and calm. Yet the quiet gratitude in their eyes is a meagre payment for the loneliness that waits for me beyond the nursery gates.
My home is a crumbling council block from the postwar era, eight flats stacked like tired bricks. Two years ago my mother, a weary woman who had buried all her hopes in these walls, passed away. I never knew my father; he vanished long before I was born, leaving only a dusty photograph.
Life here is harsh. The water comes out cold from a rusty tap, the toilet is a public facility that feels like an icecave in January, and the summer heat is suffocating. The real tyrant, however, is the old coal stove. In winter it devours two full loads of firewood, sucking the last pennies from my modest wages. I would sit for hours watching the flames behind the iron door, feeling as if the stove were burning not just wood but my years, my strength, my future, turning everything to cold ash.
One evening, as twilight draped my room in a melancholy gray, a quiet miracle arrived. It wasnt a thunderous, cinematic moment but a soft, shuffled knockNadine, the janitor from the local health centre, standing at my door with two crisp notes in her hand.
Lucy, love, here you go£200. Im sorry, I cant keep saying sorry, she mumbled, thrusting the money toward me.
I stared at the cash, a debt Id mentally written off two years ago.
Dont worry about it, Nadine, I whispered. You didnt have to.
Its necessary! she insisted, lowering her voice as if sharing a state secret. Now I have some money, listen
She began a tale that seemed ripped from a tabloid. A group of Polish workers had rolled into our little town, looking for quick jobs and, apparently, marriage contracts. One of them, a man named Jakub, had approached her while she was sweeping the street and offered a strange, tantalising sum£1,500for a marriage of convenience.
My family needs citizenship fast, theyre hunting for brides. Yesterday they signed me up. My brother, Tomasz, is staying with me until he finds a proper match. My daughter, Sophie, even wants a new coat because winters coming. And you? Look at this chance. You need money, right? Who will marry you?
His words werent cruel, just brutally plain. I felt the familiar ache flare beneath my heart. I had no realistic prospects of marriage; no suitors, no future beyond the nursery, the corner shop and the stove. Yet here lay £1,500enough for firewood, fresh wallpaper, maybe a sliver of hope.
Alright, I said quietly. Ill do it.
The next day Nadine brought the candidate. When I opened the door I recoiled, instinctively stepping back into the hallway, trying to hide my bulky frame. Standing there was a lanky young man, tall and thin, his face untouched by lifes roughness, eyes dark and hauntingly sad.
Good heavens, hes just a boy! I gasped.
He straightened up. Im twentytwo, he said, his accent faint but clear.
Nadine huffed, Hes only fifteen years younger than me, and youve only got an eightyear gap. Hes a proper man!
At the registry office the clerk, a stern woman in a navy suit, stared at us suspiciously and announced a mandatory onemonth waiting period to think things over.
The Polish workers, their business concluded, left town. Before they went, Jakub asked for my phone number.
Its lonely being in a new place alone, he explained, and in his eyes I saw a reflection of my own isolation.
He called every evening. At first the conversations were stiff and short, then they lingered longer. Jakub turned out to be a surprisingly thoughtful companion. He spoke of the mountains back home, of a sun that feels different, of a mother he adored, of why hed come to Englandto help his larger family. He asked about my work, the children, the smell of fresh earth in spring. I found myself laughing into the phone, my voice light and girlish, forgetting my weight and my age. In that month we learned each other more deeply than many couples do in years.
When his return date arrived, I slipped into the only dress I owneda tight, silverthreaded frock that clung to every curve. I felt a mix of nerves and excitement. His friends, also young and earnest, stood as witnesses. The ceremony was swift, the registrars words flat, but to me it glittered like a flash of fireworksrings, vows, a surreal sense of unreality.
Afterwards Jakub escorted me home. He handed me an envelope with the promised £1,500. The weight of it felt like the weight of my decision, my desperation, my new role. Then he pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. Inside lay a delicate gold chain on black silk.
Its a gift, he whispered. I wanted a ring but didnt know my size. I dont want to leave. I want you to truly be my wife.
I stood frozen, unable to speak.
Through these calls Ive heard your soul, he continued, his eyes fierce with adult conviction. Its kind, purejust like my mothers. She died; my father loved her deeply. I love you, Lucy. Truly. Let me stay, with you.
It wasnt a sham marriage; it was a genuine proposal. Looking into his earnest, sorrowful eyes, I saw not pity but respect, gratitude and a budding tenderness I hadnt dared to dream of.
The following day Jakub left for London for work, but it felt less like parting and more like the start of a waiting game. He visited every weekend. When I learned I was pregnant, he made a bold move: sold his share in a joint venture, bought an old van, and returned to Littleford for good, becoming a driver who ferried people and parcels to the nearby market town. His business flourished thanks to hard work and honesty.
Our first son was born, and three years later a second. Two healthy, cheeky boys with their fathers eyes and my bright smile filled the house with laughter, tiny footfalls and the scent of real family life.
My husband doesnt drink or smokehis faith forbids ityet he works tirelessly and looks at me with a love that makes the neighbours stare enviously. The eightyear age gap has melted away, invisible in the warmth of our bond.
Whats most astonishing is how Ive changed. Marriage, motherhood, caring for a family have reshaped my body from the inside. The excess weight melts away day by day, as if shedding an unnecessary shell that once protected a fragile creature. I havent starved; Ive simply been swept up in movement, responsibility and joy. My eyes sparkle, my stride steadier, my confidence renewed.
Now, as I stand by the stovenow carefully tended by JakubI watch my boys play on the carpet and feel my husbands affectionate gaze on me. I think back to that strange evening, the two hundred pounds, Nadines knock, and how the greatest miracle often arrives not in a flash of lightning but in a quiet knock on the door, bringing a stranger with sorrowful eyes who offered not a fake marriage but an entirely new life. A real one.
