I put three small cutlets on my plate—my husband snapped and declared I needed to lose weight.
Six years of marriage, and I’ve had three children. Our eldest, Thomas, is five, our daughter Emily is three, and the youngest, Harry, is just six months old. My name’s Charlotte, I’m thirty-six. I always wanted a close family, and in many ways, I have it—but lately, I’ve felt like I’m losing myself.
I met James when I was nearly thirty. All my friends were already wearing wedding rings, raising kids, talking about schools and mortgages, while I just couldn’t seem to meet the right man. Work, home, work. That was my life until he walked in—tall, confident, a former athlete turned department manager. I never thought he’d fancy me. But he showed interest, asked me out, wanted to know what I liked. And when he introduced me to his mum, I knew it was serious.
His mother’s the kindest woman. She took to me straight away, called me “love,” and nudged James to propose. We married, and I was happy. Nine months later, Thomas was born, and I went on maternity leave. Then came Emily, then Harry. I’ve not been back to work since. All my time goes to the kids and the house.
Thomas does football and art club, Emily learns at home with me. I think I’m a good mum. But there’s one problem—I’ve gained weight. A lot. I’m nearly twelve stone now, when I used to be barely eight. Back then, I managed the gym twice a week. Now, with three kids, finding a minute for myself feels impossible.
A few times I’ve tried exercises at home—before I even start, one’s thirsty, another needs the loo, the youngest just wants cuddles. Some days, I can barely drag myself out of bed, let alone work out.
At first, James joked—called me “curvy,” his “little teddy.” It seemed to amuse him. Then it stopped. He’d just stare at me, sigh. Then came the jabs.
Last week, we sat down to lunch. I served myself three small cutlets—I was starving, hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He snatched two off my plate, tossed them back into the pan, and said coldly,
“You need to lose weight. Have you looked at yourself?”
I froze. Then he added,
“If I fall for someone else, it’ll be your fault. I need a woman I actually want to be with. Look at you.”
The words hit like a slap. I dropped my gaze, clenched my jaw. Thoughts swirled: “He’s right… I’ve let myself go. I’m ugly. Exhausted. Uninteresting…”
I wish I could go to the salon, get a massage, even just a coffee. But there’s no time or money. Everything goes on the kids, their clubs, rent, bills, James’s suits—he’s a manager, has to look the part. We help his mum too—her pension’s tight. Nothing’s left for me.
Sometimes I stand in a changing room, trying on clothes, and cry. Nothing fits. Everything looks wrong. I feel ugly and unwanted.
James earns well, but it never stretches far. I’ve got no income—I don’t work. I’m trapped: no time to find a job, no energy to break free.
I’m terrified he’ll leave. I’ve seen how he looks at other women—slim, polished, effortless. I try. Honestly. But I’ve no way to be “perfect.” All I do is cook, clean, wipe noses and bums.
Sometimes I think if not for his mum, he’d have packed his bags by now. She always says, “James, you’ve got a wonderful wife, a good mother. Don’t throw that away over a few pounds.”
I cling to her words. I hope someone will talk sense into him, that he’ll remember why he loved me. That this is temporary. That I’ll find myself again. But right now… I’m just scared.
Sometimes I dream of waking up as the old Charlotte—slim, bright, sure of herself. Then at three in the morning, Harry wails, and it’s back to nappies, bottles, mush…
I’m exhausted. I don’t feel like a woman anymore. Just a function. A mother. A housekeeper. A shadow.
And more and more, one thought loops in my head: “What if he really does leave?”
