He took two sausages off my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. After six years of marriage and raising three kids, I’m terrified of being left alone.
I’m 36 now. Six years ago, I became a mum to three beautiful children: Archie’s five, little Emily’s three, and baby Oliver’s just six months old. I always dreamed of a big family, but I never imagined how hard it would be—physically, mentally, just *humanly*. Life feels like a never-ending race, and I’m always running on empty.
I met James when I was nearly 30. All my girlfriends were already married with kids, while I was just bouncing between work and home, always alone. Then suddenly, there he was—tall, fit, full of charm. Back then, he had a great job managing a team at a law firm. I 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, kind, the sort of woman you immediately like—took to me straight away. She adored me and practically nudged him into proposing. We married fast, almost in a blur. And then came the babies.
First Archie, and I quit my job. Then Emily, then Oliver. I never went back. The kids are on me all day—Archie’s got football club, I home-school Emily, and the baby’s always in my arms. I love them, I really do, but I’ve got nothing left. Not energy, not… *me*.
I used to weigh seven and a half stone. Went to the gym, ran in the mornings, took care of myself. Now? Nearly twelve and a half. My days are mashed potatoes, nappies, homework, soup, cleaning, tantrums—repeat. No time, no energy for exercise. And if I *do* try, the kids swarm me, climbing, tugging, asking for things.
James used to joke about it. Called me his “curvy cupcake,” his “cuddly bear.” But slowly, the jokes stopped. Then so did his patience.
Last Friday, we were eating dinner. I put three sausages on my plate. He glanced over, wordlessly took two back, and put them in the pan.
“You need to drop some weight. If I end up with someone else, it’ll be your fault,” he said, not even looking at me.
I froze. Like I’d been punched in the chest. I *know* I’ve changed. I’m exhausted. I’m not the woman he fell for. But is it my fault I gave everything to this family? That I don’t sleep because one’s teething, another won’t eat broccoli, and the third lost his schoolbook *again*? Don’t I deserve just a bit of kindness?
I’d *love* a massage, a manicure, to dye my hair. But there’s no money. It all goes on the kids—clubs, food, 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 just wear an old dressing gown. Except I barely recognise myself in the mirror now. Dresses don’t fit. Jeans won’t button. Everything feels wrong.
Sometimes I don’t even feel like a woman anymore. Just a shadow. Feeding, cleaning, holding it together—but not *feeling*, not daring to dream. His mum’s the only thing keeping us going. She calls, visits, helps with the kids. And I pray she won’t let him walk away. Won’t let him ruin everything I’ve lived for these past six years.
But sometimes I’m scared—what if one day he just packs his bags and leaves? Leaves me with three kids and the ghost of who I used to be? I’m not asking for much. Just for him to remember why he loved me. To see that I’m still her. Just… so, so tired.
