He took two sausages from my plate and told me I needed to lose weight. At thirty-six, how had I become “guilty” for bearing three children?
My name is Eleanor, and I am thirty-six. For six years now, I’ve been married and raising three children. The eldest, Oliver, is five. The youngest girl, Matilda, is three. And the baby, Henry, is just six months old. I do not work—I stay home and care for them. The only time I ever did was straight after university, before the first pregnancy. The rest of my years have been spent as a mother. And let me tell you, it’s not as simple as it may seem.
I met Alexander when I was nearly thirty. By then, my friends were already well into building their families, while I was still juggling the office and rented flats. He was tall, charismatic, self-assured—a former athlete, now a department head. I never imagined a man like him would take an interest in me. But then he invited me to meet his mother, and I knew it was serious.
Margaret, his mother, was kinder and warmer than I’d expected. Right away, she said, “Take care of this girl.” Within months, we married.
When Oliver was born, I left my job and threw myself entirely into motherhood. Then came Matilda, and now, Henry. I haven’t left my children for a moment. Oliver takes dance and art lessons. Matilda stays home with me while I teach her. We don’t use nursery—why would we, when I’m here? And I truly believe I’m a good mother. My children are warm, safe, and happy.
But at some point, everything began to unravel. After the third child, I gained weight. Now I weigh around twelve stone, though I was once slender—barely seven and a half. Back then, I went to the gym, kept my nails done, took care of myself.
Now, there’s no time, no energy. If I try to exercise, Henry cries, Matilda asks for water, Oliver wants me to admire his latest drawing. Sometimes I simply can’t get off the sofa—sleepless nights, endless feeds, sheer exhaustion. I’m not complaining; it’s just the way things are.
At first, Alexander joked about it. Called me “pudding,” “little bear.” Said I’d softened—in every sense. I laughed with him. Then the jokes stopped.
Last Friday, we were having lunch. I’d served myself three sausages—I’d been on my feet all day, hadn’t eaten a thing. Suddenly, Alexander grabbed my fork, took two away, and said, cold as ice, “You need to slim down.” Then he added, “If I stray, it’ll be your fault. Not mine.”
I sat there, stunned. A chill ran through me. Yes, I know I’ve put on weight. Yes, the mirror feels unfamiliar. But don’t I deserve at least a little respect? I bore him three children. I gave up my career. I gave up myself.
I’d love a manicure, a pedicure, a massage. I’d love a pretty new dress. But there’s no time, no spare money. Everything goes to the children, their classes, the bills. Alexander works as a senior manager—he must look impeccable. We even support his mother. And me? I make oatmeal and honey face masks at night, once the children are asleep.
I haven’t bought myself anything new in over a year. And if I step into a shop, I leave in tears. Because nothing fits. Because I’m not who I was.
I’ve lost faith that I’ll ever be slender again. My only hope is Margaret—that she won’t let Alexander destroy our family. Because I no longer feel like a wife. Just a mother and a housekeeper. But isn’t that enough to be respected?
