He took two burgers off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. After six years of marriage and three kids, I’m terrified of being left alone.
I’m thirty-six. In those six years, I’ve become a mum to three wonderful kids—Oliver’s five, little Isabelle’s three, and our youngest, Henry, is just six months old. I always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how hard it would be—physically, emotionally, just *humanly*. Life feels like an endless race where I’m always running on empty.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already married with kids, while I was just working, going home, always alone. Then suddenly, there he was—tall, athletic, full of charm. Back then, he was already doing well, managing a department at a law firm. Never thought a man like that would look twice at someone like me.
I knew he was serious when he introduced me to his mum. Margaret—gentle, refined, warm—took to me straight away. She adored me and practically nudged him into proposing. We married quickly, almost in a whirlwind. Then came the babies.
First Oliver, and I quit my job. Then Isabelle, then Henry. I never went back. The kids are my whole world—Oliver’s in football club, I homeschool Isabelle, and Henry’s always in my arms. I love them, they’re amazing, but I’ve got nothing left—no energy, no… *me*.
I used to be 8 stone. Went to the gym, ran every morning, took care of myself. Now I’m nearly 13. My days? Porridge, nappies, maths homework, spaghetti, laundry, bedtime meltdowns, round and round. No time or energy for exercise. And if I *do* try, the kids swarm me, pulling at my clothes, clambering into my lap.
James used to joke about it—called me his “snuggle bunny,” his “cuddly bear.” But slowly, the jokes stopped. Then so did his patience.
Last Friday, we were eating dinner. I’d put three burgers on my plate. He looked, silently took two back, and slid them onto the serving dish.
*”You need to lose weight. If I end up with someone else, it’ll be your fault,”* he said, not even looking at me.
I froze. Like a punch to the chest. I *know* I’ve changed. That I’m exhausted. That I’m not the woman he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to this family? That I haven’t slept through the night in years because one’s teething, one won’t eat peas, and the other’s lost his homework *again*? Don’t I deserve even a bit of kindness?
I’d *love* a spa day, a haircut, new clothes. But there’s no money. It all goes on the kids—football fees, groceries, the mortgage, helping his mum. James earns well, but we’ve got bills. And *he* has to look sharp—he’s the boss. Me? I can shuffle around in my old dressing gown. Except I barely recognize myself in the mirror now. Dresses don’t fit. Jeans won’t zip. Everything feels wrong.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m even a woman anymore. Just a shadow. A feeding, cleaning, tidying machine—no room to *feel*, let alone dream. His mum’s the only thing holding us together. She calls, visits, helps with the kids. I pray she stops him from leaving. From wrecking everything I’ve lived for these past six years.
Sometimes I’m scared—what if he packs a bag one day and walks out? Leaves me with three kids and the ghost of who I used to be? I don’t ask for much. Just… I wish he’d remember why he loved me. See that I’m still her—just so, *so* tired.
