**Diary Entry – 15th June**
My name is Emily, and I’m thirty-six. For six years now, I’ve been married and raising three children. My eldest, Oliver, is five. My youngest girl, Sophie, is three. And my littlest, Henry, is just six months old. I don’t work—I stay home and look after the children. The only job I ever had was straight out of university, before maternity leave. The rest of the time, I’ve been a mother. And let me tell you, it’s not as easy as it seems.
I met Alexander when I was nearly thirty. By then, my girlfriends were already settled with families, while I was still juggling the office and a rented flat. He was tall, charismatic, sure of himself—a former athlete, now a department head. I never imagined a man like that would notice me. But he invited me to meet his mother, and that’s when I knew it was serious.
Margaret, his mum, was kinder than I expected. She took my hand and said, “Look after this one.” We married a few months later.
When Oliver was born, I left my job and threw myself into motherhood. Then came Sophie, and just recently, Henry. I’ve never left my children for so much as an hour. Oliver does football and art club, Sophie’s still at home with me—I teach her myself. We don’t use nursery because I’m always here. And honestly, I think I’m a good mother. My children are warm, happy, and loved.
But at some point, things started to unravel. After Henry’s birth, I put on weight. Now I’m around twelve and a half stone, though I was barely eight before. Back then, I went to the gym, had my nails done, took care of myself. Now? There’s no time, no energy. If I try to exercise, Henry cries, Sophie wants a drink, Oliver needs me to see his latest drawing. Sometimes, I can’t even drag myself off the sofa—sleepless nights, breastfeeding, sheer exhaustion. I’m not complaining; it’s just the truth.
At first, Alex joked about it. Called me “pudding,” “teddy bear.” Said I was softer now—in every sense. I laughed with him. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I’d put three sausages on my plate—I’d been on my feet all day, hadn’t eaten a thing. Suddenly, Alex snatched my fork, took two sausages off my plate, and said coldly, “You need to lose weight.” Then he added, “If I end up with another woman, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
I sat there, stunned. My stomach turned. Yes, I know I’ ve put on weight. Yes, I don’t recognise myself in the mirror. But don’t I deserve at least a little respect? I’ve given him three children. I gave up my career. I gave up myself.
I’d love to get my nails done, have a pedicure, book a massage. I’d love to buy a pretty dress. But there’s no time, no money for it. Everything goes on the kids, their clubs, the mortgage. Alex is a manager—he has to look polished. We even help his mum out. And me? I make face masks from oats and honey at night, once the kids are asleep.
I haven’t bought anything new in over a year. And if I even step into a shop, I leave in tears. Nothing fits. Nothing’s for the woman I’ve become.
I’ve lost faith that I’ll ever be slim again. My only hope is Margaret—that she won’t let Alex wreck our family. Because I don’t feel like a wife anymore. Just a mother and a maid. But isn’t that enough to be valued?
**Lesson:** A woman’s worth isn’t measured by the weight she carries—but by the love she gives. And sometimes, those who take the most forget to give back.
