FORBIDDEN: HIS PLUS SIZE OBSESSION

What’s the Number?

My husband’s voice came sharply from the doorway.

I flinched and looked up.

He stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight.

That familiar crease sat between his brows—the one that used to mean he cared.

Now it only looked like irritation.

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

I blinked. “Oh… right.” My voice came out small. “The number.”

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

304.4 lb.

Tears hit before I could stop them.

I had gained again—when I was supposed to be losing. After the skipped meals. The morning walks that left my knees aching.

“It’s… three… three hundred and—”

Mitch stepped closer, leaning just enough to see.

A humorless laugh slipped out.

“Three hundred and four.”

He dragged a hand down his face.

For a second, he didn’t say anything. His eyes just moved over me—slowly, deliberately.

That silence hurt more than words.

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.

“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 like a damn whale, Lena."

I swallowed hard, tears clouding my eyes.

“Mitch, that’s not fair—”

“It's not fair to me either!" he snapped.

“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 sucked in a breath.

“I’m not happy like this either. You think I don’t see it? I do. And it's killing me. I just… I want us back. The way we were.”

I expected something, anything after that.

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

Seconds later, the front door slammed.

I stayed in the bathroom, 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 that I try modeling.

Then came the first miscarriage.

The weight started after that.

The second and third hollowed me out completely.

I stopped leaving the house. Spent hours beside the empty crib, staring at yellow walls that never held our baby.

Mitch grew distant and food became my only comfort.

By the time I noticed, everything had changed.

My body. My reflection. My life.

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

The scale dropped.

Then climbed 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 with tears-filled eyes.

Things would be easier if it had always been this way.

But it wasn’t.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.