**Diary Entry**
“You’ve let yourself go. Put on weight. I don’t want to look elsewhere—I swear there’s no one else.”
“But this can’t go on. I want to admire the woman I love. And, well, I don’t admire you anymore. You bore me,” my husband said.
Charlotte blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. So this was his repayment for nearly fifteen years of marriage.
“What are you suggesting?” she asked. “Divorce?”
“Probably for the best.”
“And the kids?”
“I’ll help. Take them at weekends.”
“Just like that!” Charlotte sneered, wiping her eyes. “Bored of your wife, so you’ll abandon the children too? Become a weekend dad! Shame on you.”
* * *
Charlotte and James met at a wedding. Her third cousin was getting married, and James was among the groom’s guests. Despite the ten-year age gap, Charlotte knew instantly—he was her destiny. Charming, well-spoken, educated—he seemed like a prince from a fairy tale.
“Honestly, Charlotte, what would a man like him want with you?” her mother had scoffed. “You’re simple. Plain. And James? He’s quite the catch.”
Back then, Charlotte had pouted and turned away, refusing to meet her mother’s eye. Only much later did she realise how those words had chipped away at her confidence, leaving her with little self-respect.
But in her youth, she hadn’t cared. Just the thought of James sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach. They married after six months. She was barely twenty.
“He’ll leave you, mark my words,” her mother warned. “Too high-flying for the likes of you. You barely finished college—just a basic sewing course. Hardly a career!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum,” Charlotte had snapped. “But I’m a married woman now. I’ll make my own choices.”
For years, life had felt like a holiday—weekend trips, theatre outings, occasional sewing projects just for fun. James earned well, so money was never an issue. Then their daughter, Emily, was born, and Charlotte threw herself into motherhood. She adored it—playgroups, ballet lessons, refusing to send Emily to nursery so she could raise her herself. She still found time for runs, keeping herself trim.
“You landed a gem, James!” his relatives said at gatherings. “Beautiful wife, keeps the house perfect, dotes on your daughter. When’s the next one coming?”
“Soon, hopefully!” James would say with a fond glance at Charlotte.
But conceiving again wasn’t easy.
“See? Can’t even give your husband an heir,” her mother taunted over the phone.
“Thanks for the support, Mum. I cry enough as it is.”
After years of trying, they accepted fate—Emily would be their only child. She thrived in ballet, and Charlotte poured herself into her daughter’s success—costumes, rehearsals, competitions. By nine, her coach predicted a bright future. James adored Emily too. His beautiful wife and daughter were his pride. And Charlotte *had* blossomed—learning to dress well, indulging in skincare, always putting Emily first.
Everything changed when she discovered she was pregnant. Overjoyed, they celebrated—until complications arose. Bedrest, health scares, a traumatic birth. Their son, Oliver, was healthy, but Charlotte’s recovery took years. James doted at first, then grew distant—ballet runs, nappies, work. He suggested her mother help, but Charlotte refused.
“Not a chance. She’s never said a kind word to me. I won’t have her poisoning Emily’s mind.”
By the time Charlotte recovered, her figure had changed. Diets didn’t help. At thirty-something, she felt decades older. Yet James still called her beautiful. She threw herself deeper into parenting—swimming lessons for Oliver, ballet competitions for Emily, who was becoming a rising star. Charlotte grew heavier, abandoning fashion and facials, but Emily’s wins made it worth it. She even dreamed of designing her competition costumes—if the coach allowed.
Then James looked her up and down one day.
“You’ve let yourself go. You must be a stone overweight.”
“Maybe two!” she shot back. “I’m not twenty anymore. And when do I have time?”
“Make time. I want a beautiful wife.”
“You’re no spring chicken either,” she retorted, nodding at his thinning hair and paunch.
At first, she bristled, then joked—but when he kept calling her frumpy, the hurt cut deep.
* * *
Then came *that* conversation. The one where he said she wasn’t the woman he admired anymore.
“Divorce over *this*?” she said. “Think of the kids.”
“Maybe there’s a way to fix things…” James mused, and she clung to that hope.
*I’ll be beautiful again*, she thought. *Youth won’t return, but I’ll try.*
She starved herself—no time for the gym, unwilling to sacrifice time with the kids. Weekly fasts, half a grapefruit for breakfast. The weight fell off, but James only muttered, “Well done.” Still, divorce talk stopped. She took that as a win.
“Mum, you’re not eating!” Emily said, eyeing the grapefruit.
“You’ll understand when you’re older. I want to be slim again.”
“You weren’t fat! Now you just look ill.”
Charlotte *had* noticed her pallor—another reason for more facials. Did they help? At least spending money made her *feel* prettier.
Sewing was abandoned. She couldn’t recall the last time she touched her machine.
Six months of this, and she was gaunt—thinner than at eighteen, but no prettier. “Dried-up sardine,” she called her reflection. Every cold knocked her out. Even Emily scolded her now.
*I’m the one being lectured by my teenage daughter about diets.*
That stung. She eased up—only to regain a stone. James caught her weighing herself.
“Back to 9st. But I feel better.”
“Next you’ll balloon back!” he snapped. “I wanted a beautiful wife!”
She sighed, too drained for tears or rage.
“I’m trying my best—”
“With a face like thunder,” he sneered. “Some women glow at thirty. You’re always exhausted. I work like a dog—I deserve a pretty wife. Maybe I’ll find a twenty-five-year-old.”
“Why would she want *you*?” Charlotte laughed hollowly. “Face it—you’re not young either. No supermodel’s eyeing *you*.”
“And what can *you* do without me? You’re just a housewife. Not even a seamstress anymore. Who’d want you?”
That night, she took the kids to her mother’s. Instead of gloating, her mother hugged her silently. Charlotte swallowed her tears and plotted—jobs, maybe skating costumes? She knew the scene well, thanks to Emily…
* * *
Now, in her sunlit sewing studio, listening to Emily’s radio interview, pride swelled in her chest. Her girl—a regional star, maybe even international someday. They’d celebrate with pizza. She’d healed her relationship with food, regained some weight, but looked—and felt—better.
“Who’s your role model?” the host asked.
“My mum,” Emily said. “Three years ago, Dad left us. Didn’t pay a penny. She sewed day and night to keep us going. She taught me never to give up. I admire her. She’s the most beautiful woman I know.”
