You’ve let yourself go. Put on weight. I don’t want to find someone else, and I swear, there’s no one else.
“But this can’t go on. I want to admire the woman I love. And you… well, I can’t.”
Emma blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears. This was how her husband repaid her after nearly fifteen years together.
“And what do you propose?” she asked. “A divorce?”
“I think it’s the best solution…”
“What about the children?”
“I’ll help. Take them on weekends.”
“Just like that!” Emma bared her teeth, wiping her eyes. “You’re bored of your wife, so you’ll toss the children aside too! Become a Sunday dad! You’ve no shame, no conscience…”
* * *
Emma and Richard had met at a wedding. Her second cousin was getting married, and Richard was among the groom’s guests. Despite the ten-year age gap, Emma knew instantly he was the one. Charming, well-spoken, educated—he seemed like a prince from a fairy tale.
“Darling, what would a man like that want with you?” her mother tutted. “You’re simple. Plain. And Richard? He’s a catch.”
Emma would pout and turn away, refusing to meet her mother’s eye. Only later, grown, did she realise how much those words had twisted her self-worth. But back then, she was too young to see it. Butterflies filled her stomach at just the thought of him. They married after six months. Emma had just turned twenty.
“He’ll leave you, mark my words!” her mother would say. “You’re wasting your time. He’s too high above your station. And what have you got? A college diploma in textiles—barely a qualification!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mum,” Emma would snipe. “But I’m a married woman now. I’ll decide my own life.”
For the first few years, it was like a never-ending holiday—weekend trips to the countryside, nights at the theatre. Occasionally, Emma would sew little things—skirts, dresses—not for money, just for pleasure. Richard earned enough. Then little Sophie arrived, and Emma threw herself into motherhood. She loved it—the playgroups, the skating lessons. She refused to send Sophie to nursery, choosing instead to teach her herself. It left little time for anything else, but she still squeezed in runs to keep fit.
“Lucky man, Richard!” his relatives would say at gatherings. “You’ve got a stunner for a wife, and she keeps the home perfect. When’s the next one coming?”
“Soon!” Richard would smile, glancing fondly at Emma.
But “soon” never came easily.
“See?” her mother would crow over the phone. “Can’t even give him an heir.”
“Thanks for the support, Mum. I cry enough about it as it is.”
After two years of trying, they accepted fate: Sophie would be their only child. But she thrived at skating, and Emma poured her energy into supporting her—sewing costumes, driving her to competitions. By nine, Sophie was already tipped for greatness.
Richard adored her too. His beautiful wife and daughter were his pride. And Emma *had* grown more striking—she’d learned to dress well, and Richard’s salary allowed for the occasional spa visit.
Then, out of nowhere, Emma found out she was pregnant. They were overjoyed. But the pregnancy was difficult—scares, bed rest, a traumatic birth that nearly claimed her life. Their son, William, was healthy. Emma took years to recover. At first, Richard doted on her, but soon, the burden of caring for Sophie—now a budding athlete—and baby William fell on him. He suggested asking Emma’s mother for help. Emma refused.
“Not a chance. That woman’s never said a kind word to me. I won’t have her whispering poison in Sophie’s ear.”
By the time Emma finally regained her strength, her figure had changed. No matter what she did, the weight wouldn’t shift. At thirty-something, she felt decades older. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: *Now he’ll really stop looking at you.*
But strangely, Richard still called her the most beautiful woman he knew. She threw herself deeper into motherhood—swimming lessons for William, competitions for Sophie, whose talent was undeniable. Emma sewed her costumes herself, dreaming of designing something spectacular enough for a major event.
Then one day, Richard looked her up and down.
“You’ve let yourself go. Must be at least a stone overweight.”
“Maybe two!” Emma scoffed. “I’m not twenty anymore. And when do I have time?”
“Well, make time. I want a beautiful wife.”
“You’re not exactly the lad I married either,” she shot back, eyeing his receding hairline and paunch.
At first, she brushed it off. But when he kept saying she looked “unkempt,” she began to cry in private.
* * *
Then came *that* conversation—the one where Richard said he wanted to admire his wife, and Emma no longer measured up.
“This isn’t a reason to break a family,” she pleaded. “Think of the children.”
“Maybe we could fix things…” he mused. She clung to the hope like a lifeline.
*I’ll make myself beautiful again. Not like I can turn back time—but I’ll try.*
She starved—no time for the gym, not when the children needed her. She counted every calorie, fasting one day a week. It worked; the weight dropped. She squeezed in facials, browsed clothes online between school runs. Slowly, she shrank back to her teenage weight. All Richard said was “well done.” But the divorce talk stopped. She took it as a win.
“Mum, you’ve stopped eating!” Sophie said one day, eyeing the half-grapefruit that was Emma’s breakfast.
“You’ll understand when you’re older. I want to be slim again.”
“You weren’t fat! Now you’re just pale!”
Emma noticed it too—her sallow skin. More facials, then. Maybe they helped. Maybe it was the placebo of spending money.
She kept it up for six months. Skinny, yes—but not pretty. Gaunt. Every cold left her drained. Even Sophie started nagging her to eat.
*Since when does the teenager scold the mother for dieting?*
The thought sobered her. She tried eating normally again. Five pounds crept back. Richard caught her on the scales.
“Back to seven stone. But I feel better.”
“You’ll balloon again!” he snapped. “I thought I’d finally have a beautiful wife!”
She was too tired to cry or argue.
“I’m trying my best—”
“With a face like a slapped arse,” he sneered. “Some women glow at thirty. You’re just tired. I work like a dog—I want a *beautiful* wife. Maybe I’ll find a twenty-five-year-old.”
“And why would a twenty-five-year-old want *you*?” Emma laughed hollowly. “You think you’re some prize? I’m done. Don’t fancy me? Fine. But let’s see who’ll swoon over *you*.”
“What would you do without me? You’re just a housewife. Not even a seamstress anymore. Who’d want you?”
That night, she took the children to her mother’s. For once, her mother hugged her instead of gloating. Emma swallowed her tears and started planning—jobs, freelance sewing. She knew the skating world inside out.
* * *
Now, in her little sunlit sewing studio, Emma listened as Sophie gave a radio interview. Pride swelled in her chest. Her girl—the region’s rising star, maybe even future champion. They’d celebrate with pizza later. Emma had repaired her eating habits. Some weight had returned, but she looked—and felt—better.
“Who’s your role model?” the host asked.
“My mum,” Sophie said. “Three years ago, she and Dad divorced. He abandoned us, barely paid a penny. Mum sewed day and night to keep us afloat. She taught me never to give up. I admire her—and she’s the most beautiful woman I know.”
