“Would you look at the state of you! More like a pudding than a proper wife!” Oliver scowled at his wife, thoroughly fed up and desperate to escape their cramped semi-detached in Manchester.
“Darling, I’ve only just had our baby. Give me time—I’ll lose the weight,” Molly pleaded, blinking back tears.
“All my mates’ wives bounced back straightaway. Didn’t balloon up like you did, even while pregnant!”
Deep down, Oliver despised her. This wasn’t the woman he’d married—she used to be lively, put-together, someone who’d bother with lipstick just to pop to Tesco. Now? A frumpy mess in a stained dressing gown, forever apologising with her eyes.
But Emily—oh, Emily was different. Bold, glamorous, absolutely mad for him. She’d been dropping hints about him leaving Molly for months.
His fingers twitched toward his phone.
“Just off for a walk. Might grab a loaf,” he lied. The second he rounded the corner, he dialled Emily.
“Hey, kitten. Missed you rotten. Can’t stand another minute at home. Fancy a visit?”
“Get over here, you,” she purred.
Oliver dutifully dropped the bread on the counter, winced at the baby’s wailing, and muttered something about an emergency shift cover—easy enough to sell, given his erratic hours. Molly nodded, leaning in for a peck, but he dodged it smoothly.
By midnight, the baby was asleep, and Molly sat alone, stewing over Oliver’s words. True, she’d let herself go. Midnight snacks over the sink while the baby fed had become habit. She tried calling him—straight to voicemail.
The next morning, Oliver strolled in and announced he was leaving. Found someone else. Didn’t love her anymore. But he’d “do right” by the kid—weekly payments, the whole charade.
Molly didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Just let him go.
A year later, the baby was in nursery, Molly had shed a few stone (not a supermodel, but less “overstuffed sofa”), and she’d landed a job where a bloke named James kept bringing her tea. One cinema trip led to strolls in Hyde Park, then marriage six months on. James adored her curves, her laugh, the way she scrunched her nose when she read bedtime stories to his—no, their—son.
Then, bumping into an old neighbour from her Oliver days:
“You’ll never guess—saw Oliver with that Emily! Married her, they’ve got a baby now. She’s piled on the pounds, apparently. He’s always ‘working late.’”
Molly shrugged. Oliver’s paltry cheques barely covered shoes, let alone childcare. But it didn’t matter.
Not when she had James—who’d turned out to be everything Oliver wasn’t.
