Emily Thomas took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around the plate of biscuits.
“Tom, dear, are you ready for tea? Wash your hands and come in, we’re about to start. And what’s with these? They’re sugar-free? I asked for a Victoria sponge, not these dry biscuits! Remember the bakery on High Street?”
“Just a moment, I’m coming,” Tom mumbled from the hallway, his voice low with something like regret.
“Hurried up, love, the meatloaf’s cooling. And don’t you dare say I’ve gained weight, Tom!” Emily’s voice cracked. She held up the tight packaging like a shield. “How many times did I remind you to check the label?”
Tom paused, his face darkening. “Emily,” he began, then stopped. “You’ve been… you’ve grown, that’s all. Didn’t you notice? The waistband on your best dress—last summer, I remember you could go out without the belt…”
Emily flushed. Tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t speak, just turned toward the hallway, her steps slow and weighted.
It had been seven years since they’d married in Manchester’s St. Peter’s Church. Tom’s parents had gifted them a terraced house in Cheshire, complete with garden and all. Everyone envied their start—a secure life, no mortgage worries. Their hopes for children had felt assured, nestled in the comfort of their new home and dual incomes.
Then the redundancy letter came. Emily’s PR agency had folded during the recession. Job offers were scarce, and the process of retraining felt endless. “You could stay home,” Tom suggested once, after returning from an early meeting. “We can manage on my salary. You’ve always loved gardening. Maybe… maybe it’s time to focus on family.”
At first, she fought it. Resumes were drafted, interviews booked, but good roles dried up. A holiday to Cornwall with Tom and his mother stretched into another month. By the time the New Year rolled in, Emily had accepted the crumbs of her new routine: mornings spent cleaning, afternoons with crossword puzzles, evenings cooking for one.
The years bled into each other. The evenings of telly and toast gave way to casseroles and lurking around the house, waiting for Tom to come home. The fitness magazine subscriptions lapsed. Her colleagues’ invitations faded. Even her beloved jazz band nights out felt like relics.
Tom would sometimes look at her with that pinched expression, that *she’s changed* gaze. But Emily had long since stopped fighting, even in her mind.
Until the incident at the Trafford Centre. Tom had been in Bristol for a conference, and Emily, for once, had decided to treat herself. Breakfast was skipped for a sandwich and coffee. After doing a few shops, she tried on a linen dress in size 16, something she hadn’t needed in years.
“You might want a 18,” the young sales assistant offered, her voice light but decisive. “This one shows your… waistline a bit much.”
Emily hesitated, then exchanged the dress. But when she turned to leave, two laughing teenagers shifted awkwardly around her. “Er, excuse me,” one muttered. She didn’t react, swallow the shame, and left the store. By the time she reached the car park, it was raining.
That night, back home, she stared at the mirror for the first time in weeks. The whites of her teeth, the soft roll of her midsection—how long had it been since she saw her reflection without pretending?
Tom found her curled on the sofa the next evening. “Emily,” he said softly, “I was a fool. I didn’t mean…”
She nodded. The next morning, she bought runners, a skipping rope, and a membership card to the local gym on Ashley Road. The first month was hell—her legs ached, her breath came in short gasps. But she refused to stop.
By midsummer, the results showed. Her old jeans had to be sold. Her hair was cut into a chic bob. Tom barely commented, except when she started wearing more revealing outfits. “That’s too much,” he grumbled. “People will think less of me.”
The final straw came at Greg’s 60th birthday party. Wearing a daring red dress, Emily turned heads in the grand hotel. A co-worker complimented her, then turned to Tom. “Well, I never knew she was your wife, Thomas. Very distinguished!”
Tom stiffened. “Emily, you promised not to overdo this for tonight,” he hissed.
She smiled at him. “I think I look splendid,” she said, and walked out.
The next morning, she packed the car with her things. “I’m leaving,” she said to Tom, who was busy with his third bowl of porridge.
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out,” she replied, and closed the door behind her.