Behind the Mask

You will never truly understand heartbreak until it comes from the same man who once adored you—who protected you, who loved you without hesitation.

“What’s the number?”

My husband’s voice came from the doorway.

I flinched and looked up.

That’s how sad my life had become—the usual routine of stepping on the scale.

Mitch, my husband, stood there glaring at me, his arms crossed, his jaw tight.

That familiar crease sat between his brows—the one that used to mean he cared. Now, it only looked like irritation.

I swallowed.

“I don’t have time, Lena. What’s the number?”

He asked again, impatience creeping into his tone.

My gaze dropped to the scale beneath my bare feet. The digits glowed up at me like a verdict.

304.4 lbs.

My heart skipped, and tears spilled before I could stop them.

I had gained again? When I was supposed to be losing?

After all the skipped meals and morning walks that left my knees aching… this is what I got?

“I am waiting.”

Mitch’s voice made me flinch.

I looked up at him, fighting back tears.

“It’s… three… three hundred and—”

He stepped closer, leaning just enough to see. When he confirmed the number, a humorless laugh slipped from his lips.

“Three hundred and four. Wonderful.”

He dragged a hand down his face.

After that, he didn’t say anything else. His eyes just moved slowly over my body.

That silence hurt more than words. Those eyes once looked at me with so much love and admiration. Now, it felt like they were burning me with hate.

My fingers curled into my palms.

“I tried,” I whispered. “I really did. I’ve been walking every morning, barely eating… I don’t know why it’s not working.”

“Don’t,” he cut in flatly. “Just… don’t give me that silly excuse.”

The sharpness in his tone made me shrink.

He continued,

“I married a girl whose waist I could circle with my hands.”

His gaze flicked back to me, colder now.

“Now… I come home to you waddling around the house like a damn whale, Lena. How long am I supposed to put up with this?!”

I swallowed hard, tears clouding my eyes.

“Mitch, that’s not fair—”

“It’s not fair to me either!” he snapped.

“Because I don’t even recognize the wife I married anymore.”

That broke something in me.

“I’m still me,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m still the woman you married. I just… need you to be patient with me. I’ll get back in shape soon.”

I sucked in a breath before continuing.

“I’m not happy like this either. You think I don’t see it? I do. I’m gaining every day, and it’s killing me. I just… I want us back. The way we were. Please, baby.”

I expected something—anything.

Instead, Mitch turned without a word and walked out of the bathroom.

Seconds later, the front door slammed.

I stayed there, tears sliding silently down my cheeks.

I thought I had married my forever.

I was wrong.

But the worst part?

Mitch wasn’t always like this.

For years, he had been the most caring man I knew.

And I wasn’t this big when we said “I do.”

Back then, I was effortlessly slender—the kind that made strangers suggest I try modeling.

Then came the first miscarriage.

My weight started to change after that. I tried to manage it, but most of my focus was on medications and trying to conceive again.

Then the second and third miscarriages hollowed me out completely.

I stopped leaving the house. I spent hours crying beside the empty crib, staring at the tiny bed that never held our baby.

Worse, Mitch grew distant. And since I had nowhere to go and no job, food became my only comfort.

By the time I realized it, everything had changed.

My body… and my life.

I tried to fix it. Starved myself. Pushed my body until it ached all over.

The scale would drop, then climb higher—like it was punishing me for trying.

I kept waiting for Mitch to pull me close and say,

I love you no matter what. You can do this.

He never did.

You know the cruelest part of a dying love?

Your memories turn into weapons. They show you everything you had… everything you were… and force you to measure it against everything you’ve become.

I wasn’t sure I could survive the comparison.

I stared at the dark screen of the scale, tears filling my eyes.

This would’ve been easier to endure if it had always been this way.

But it wasn’t.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.