My wife has had four children and her body never changed.
No stretch marks. No weight gain. No loose skin. Just the same body I met years ago—snatched waist, smooth curves, flat stomach like she’s never carried life inside her.
She didn’t work for it. No gym. No diets. Nothing.
She eats whatever she wants. At any time. Sometimes at 2 a.m., I hear her boiling soup, warming fufu. She eats, sleeps, and still wakes up looking untouched.
I never cared about her body changing. Never expected her to “snap back.” I loved her through every version—pregnant, tired, bloated, glowing.
But the world started noticing what I chose to ignore, they praised her. Every room she walked into, there were whispers—how does she do it? What’s her secret? She started enjoying the attention.
Then she created a page which she called 'Body Positivity'.
According to her, its space for women like her, women struggling to love themselves after childbirth. She gained followers. Thousands. Most of them mothers. Some trying to conceive. Some still breastfeeding. Women looking for answers.
But instead of the truth, she fed them lies.
She said she ran in the mornings. That she avoided carbs. That she drank herbs and detox teas. That she starved herself sometimes to maintain her figure.
Meanwhile, at home, she never skipped a meal.
I kept quiet at first. I thought maybe she was only catching cruise. But then women began thanking her. Saying she gave them hope. That they were following her steps. Buying into her words.
That’s when I started getting uneasy.
I asked her, gently, why not just be honest? Why not tell them she was naturally built like that?
She looked me dead in the eye and said I was thinking too small. “This is an opportunity,” she said. “People pay for hope.”
That word stayed with me—hope. She wasn’t just lying. She was selling it. And they were buying it with both hands.
This continued till the day she made a live video.
She told her followers to pay for her secret. That if they wanted to know what she used to get her body back, they should send money. She gave an account number.
I watched it from the dining table. Quiet. Heart thudding. Mouth dry. Something about it felt... wrong.
Later that night, when she brought a plate of steaming fufu and thick oha soup to bed, I watched her eat it with both hands. No guilt. No hesitation.
That was when I recorded her.
Not to shāme her. Not to destr0y her. But because I couldn’t bear to see those women fooled. Women who were struggling, insecure about their bodies while crying over mirrors.
I posted the video anonymously. No captions. No insults. Just the truth. I also tagged her page to the video.
And then I waited. By morning, everything was gone.
Her followers. The admiration. The influence. Bloggers picked it up. People dragged her. Women she had inspired now felt betråyed.
She never confronted me. She didn’t have to. She knew it was me. She just stopped speaking.
Now she walks past me like I’m not there. Sleeps far from me. Moves like I’m invisible.
And I miss her.
Not the influencer. Not the body everyone admired. Just... her. The woman who used to reach for my hand under the covers. The woman who used to laugh so hard she cried.
I don’t know if I went too far, I don’t know if I was trying to protect others or punish her.
Maybe both.
Now I sit in silence, watching my marriage fade in slow motion, and I wonder—what matters more: truth or peace?
I want to beg her, but I’m afraid that if I do, I’m telling her it was okay to lie, and if I don’t... I might lose her completely.
I just want my wife back, I want the air in this house to feel soft again, I want God to help me fix what I broke.
Or what was already breaking.
