**Diary Entry**
My friend Emily is an incredible cook. Truly divine—she could turn a courgette and a potato into something magical! And her baking? The roast dinners? Absolutely heavenly.
But that’s not the point.
Emily carries extra weight. Quite a bit, in fact. Yet she’s lovely—smooth-faced, rosy as an apple, full of energy, no high blood pressure, no shortness of breath. She’s been married to Thomas for fifteen years, and all that time, he’s relentlessly mocked her weight with cruel, cutting remarks. Always inventive, always in front of others. He’d come up with “affectionate” nicknames—”my little heifer,” “my hippo.” Oh, she stepped on my foot, now my entire leg’s broken! He’d rave about other women, toned and slim, or anyone luckier with genetics. Even I got a few of those backhanded compliments, foolishly jumping to Emily’s defence, rambling about metabolism and genetics. Useless.
Emily always kept her composure, even laughed along. Made jokes about herself. But after their daughter was born, it got worse. The girl inherited Emily’s figure, and as she neared puberty, Thomas shifted his jabs to her—”Why eat so much? You’ll end up like your mum. Don’t you want to be pretty, not some shapeless lump?”
That’s when Emily snapped. She talked to him—once, twice, a third time—but of course, it went nowhere. Then, a year ago, she exploded. I wasn’t there, but I heard the story. In front of friends, Thomas launched into his usual routine, and suddenly Emily said, “Thomas, you know what? Sod this. If you hate my body so much, I won’t keep you. Go find a skinny one. I’m done.”
She called a taxi and left. Thomas kept joking, shrugging it off. “Where’s she gonna go?” he sneered. “She’ll cool down. She knows she looks like a overripe tomato.” Even their friends told him he was wrong, that Emily looked lovely, but no use.
When he got home, Emily was gone. So was their daughter. Turned out they’d packed their things and moved to her parents’ place—a house across town. A longer commute to school, but manageable. The second blow? Emily filed for divorce. Thomas was stunned. “Over jokes? Impossible! She must be cheating!” Then, bitterly, “Who’d want a fatty like her?”
No surprise—there was no affair. Emily had just had enough. She had a good job, a solid salary, help from her parents, and before the divorce settlement was final, she’d already bought a nice two-bed flat for her and her daughter.
After the split, Thomas ended up with a cramped one-bed. He had to sell the car—profits split. Now he’s paying child support, his salary’s small, and after deductions? Pitiful. Worst of all? He moans to friends that Emily “ruined” him—fifteen years of her cooking, and now he’s stuck with frozen meals or dinners at his mum’s. “Her roast chicken haunts me,” he whines. “Her pies! Rows of pies with all sorts of fillings!” He wakes up in tears.
Tried dating? Oh, sure. Found someone slim. “But her cooking’s dreadful,” he grumbles. “Yeah, she’s trim—but at our age, who isn’t sagging a bit?” Why not a younger woman? “Would if I could. Salary’s too low, and let’s be honest—I’ve got the belly, the bald spot, the wheezing. Fifty’s fifty.”
The bitterest part? Emily lost weight. Not drastically, but noticeably—dropped a couple of sizes. Friends say she cooks differently now—still delicious, but lighter, more veg. (She and their daughter were never mad for meat anyway. The cakes? Mostly for Thomas, with his sweet tooth.)
Recently, he saw her in the supermarket and was speechless. Approached her, all wounded pride. “You look… alright,” he mumbled. “Actually, quite nice. Fancy giving it another go?”
Her response? Not repeatable.
He’s furious. “I came to her with an open heart, and she just—” Well. Let’s just say he’s realised a bit late that cruelty isn’t a joke, and gratitude isn’t owed.
—James WhitfordThe last I heard, Thomas was still eating sad ready meals, while Emily and her daughter were hosting dinner parties where laughter—not jabs—was always on the menu.
