“You’ve let yourself go. Put on weight. I don’t want to look for someone else, and I swear, there’s no one else.”
“But I can’t keep living like this. I want to admire the woman I love. And I’m sorry, but I can’t admire you anymore. You bore me,” her husband said flatly.
Emily blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. Was this his thanks for fifteen years together?
“So what are you suggesting?” she asked, voice tight. “Divorce?”
“I think it’s the best solution.”
“And the kids?”
“I’ll help out. Take them on weekends.”
“Just like that!” Emily snapped, angrily wiping her cheeks. “You’re bored with me, so you’ll abandon your kids! Become a Sunday dad! You’ve no shame, no conscience…”
***
Emily and James had met at a wedding. A distant cousin was getting married, and James was one of the groom’s guests. Even with the ten-year age gap, Emily knew instantly—he was the one. Charming, intelligent, well-spoken—like a prince from a fairy tale.
“Honestly, what does he see in you, love?” her mother would sigh. “You’re just plain, and he’s such a catch!”
Back then, Emily would pout and turn away, refusing to meet her mother’s eye. It wasn’t until later she realized how much those words had chipped away at her confidence.
But in her teens, she’d been smitten. Butterflies at just the thought of him. They married after only six months—Emily barely twenty.
“He’ll leave you, mark my words,” her mother warned. “Out of your league. You barely finished college—sewing courses, really! Hardly a proper career!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum,” Emily would retort. “But I’m a grown woman now. I make my own choices.”
For years, life was perfect—holidays, weekends away, trips to the theatre. She sewed for fun, little skirts and dresses, never needing the money—James earned well. Then little Sophie arrived, and motherhood swallowed Emily whole. She adored it—pouring herself into ballet lessons, school runs, and skate training. She even skipped work to homeschool Sophie at first.
“You’re a lucky man, James!” his family would say. “Beautiful wife, perfect home. When’s the next one?”
“Soon!” James would grin, squeezing Emily’s hand.
But “soon” never came easily.
“What’s wrong with you?” her mother crowed during calls. “Can’t even give him a son?”
“Thanks, Mum. Like I’m not crying enough already.”
Years passed before they accepted Sophie would be their only. But Sophie thrived—winning medals, her coach predicting glory. James adored her too. And Emily? She glowed, learning to dress well, spending James’s earnings on herself—after bills and Sophie, of course.
Then, out of nowhere—a positive test. Joy like she’d never known.
But the pregnancy was brutal—bed rest, complications, a near-fatal birth. Their son, little Henry, was perfect. Emily? Broken. James hovered at first, then stopped—too busy with Sophie’s skating and babysitting.
“Ask your mum to help,” he’d suggest.
“No way. She’d poison Sophie’s mind. I know what she’s like.”
It took two years for Emily to recover. The weight, though? Stubborn. Her figure never bounced back. At thirty-five, she felt decades older. But James still called her beautiful.
Then—Henry’s swimming lessons, Sophie’s competitions, Emily sewing costumes between school runs. No time for gyms or salons. But Sophie kept winning, and pride drowned out exhaustion.
Then one day, James eyed her up and down.
“You’ve piled on the pounds. Stone and a half, easy.”
“Try two!” Emily shot back. “I’m not twenty anymore. And when exactly do I have time?”
“Well, make time. I want a wife I’m proud of.”
“Look who’s talking,” she muttered, gesturing at his receding hairline and belly.
At first, she laughed it off. But when “slovenly” became his favorite word, the tears started.
***
Then came *the* conversation—the one where he said he wanted to admire his wife again, and Emily just… didn’t measure up.
“We can’t throw everything away,” she pleaded. “Think of the kids.”
“Maybe we can fix this,” James mused. And she clung to that hope.
*I’ll be beautiful again*, she vowed. *Not eighteen, but close enough.*
Starvation diets, weekly fasts (half a grapefruit on Saturdays). The weight fell off. A snatched hour at the salon. Online shopping while waiting for Sophie at practice.
Six months in, she was gaunt—lighter than at eighteen, but haggard. James only muttered, “Good effort.” The divorce talk stopped, though. She took it as a win.
“Mum, you’re not eating!” Sophie frowned at the grapefruit.
“You’ll understand when you’re older. I want to be slim again.”
“You weren’t even fat! Now you’re just… grey.”
She booked more facials. Placebo or not, the mirror lied kinder when she’d spent £200 on it.
Then—collapse. Every cold floored her. Sophie started scolding *her* about meals.
*Since when do I take diet tips from my teenager?*
She eased up. Five pounds crept back. James caught her on the scales.
“Back to seven stone. But I feel better.”
“You’ll balloon again!” he snarled. “I finally thought I’d have a pretty wife!”
She was too tired to cry or fight.
“I’m trying.”
“Not with a smile. Other women glow at thirty. You? Dragging your feet. I work like a dog—I deserve better. Maybe a twenty-five-year-old.”
“And what’s a twenty-five-year-old doing with *you*?” she scoffed. “Face it, James—you’re not exactly fresh either.”
“What’s *your* worth?” he spat. “Just a housewife. Not even a proper seamstress. Who’d want you?”
That night, she packed the kids and went to her mum’s.
Instead of gloating, her mother hugged her. Emily swallowed tears. Then started planning—jobs, sewing commissions. She knew skating costumes inside out now, thanks to Sophie…
***
Now, in her bright little studio, listening to Sophie’s radio interview, pride swelled.
“Who’s your role model?” the host asked.
“My mum,” Sophie said. “Three years ago, Dad left. Didn’t even pay child support. 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.”
Emily smiled, smoothing the fabric in her hands. Later, they’d celebrate with pizza. She’d gained some weight back, but she looked—and felt—better than ever.
