When I was 11, my mom told me that my dad informed her she needed to lose 10 lbs before he would propose. I went to ask him about it and get the full story. When I asked him, he just laughed and said something like, “Well, she did, didn’t she?”
At that age, I didn’t understand how weird that was. I thought it was just adult teasing. Mom didn’t look hurt when she told me, more like she was sharing an inside joke. But years later, I’d realize that a lot of the “jokes” in my family weren’t jokes at all.
I grew up watching them play this strange game—Mom always trying to please Dad, Dad always moving the finish line. He’d say she was spending too much, so she’d stop buying herself anything for months. Then he’d complain she didn’t take care of herself. She’d try to cook healthier, go on walks, even dye her hair because he “liked brunettes better.” And every time she made a change, he’d find something new to pick at.
Back then, I thought that’s just how couples worked. You compromise. You try to make the other person happy. But by the time I was in high school, I noticed Mom rarely smiled in front of him anymore.
The weight comment kept coming back to me. It was such a small number—10 pounds—but it was the way he said it that stuck. Like her body had to pass some test before he’d love her “enough.”
When I turned 17, I asked Mom about it again. We were folding laundry, and I brought it up casually. She sighed and said, “Oh, that. It’s not what you think.” Then she told me something that made me stop folding mid-shirt.
Apparently, Dad hadn’t actually been serious about the number. At least, that’s what she’d believed for years. He’d told her, before they got engaged, “You know, if you lost 10 pounds, I’d probably get you a ring sooner.” She thought it was a flirty challenge. She laughed and said, “Fine, I’ll show you.” And she did—she went on this two-month diet and dropped exactly 10 pounds.
When she told him, he proposed a week later.
But here’s the part she didn’t know until years into their marriage: one of Dad’s old college buddies had told him he wouldn’t marry a woman unless she could “prove discipline.” The weight loss thing was never about her health—it was a “test” he’d picked up from that friend.
When I heard that, my stomach twisted. Mom had thought it was playful. Dad had thought it was… a vetting process.
I couldn’t shake that conversation. And over the next few years, I started noticing something else—Dad tested everyone. My brother had to get a full-time job before Dad would co-sign his car loan. My cousin had to “prove” she could keep a budget before he’d help her pay for college textbooks. He never just gave support freely—it always came with a challenge, a hoop to jump through.
By the time I left for college, I kept my distance. Phone calls were polite but short. I didn’t tell him when I was struggling financially. I didn’t want to be “tested.”
Then, when I was 24, Mom called me crying. She said Dad had told her they should “take a break” after 27 years together. My first reaction was shock, but my second was… not really surprise.
She moved into my apartment for a few months. That’s when the truth started to spill.
Dad had been seeing someone from his gym. A woman about Mom’s age, but very fit, very polished. Mom found out because she saw a text pop up on his iPad while she was doing their taxes. It wasn’t explicit—just something like, “Can’t wait to see you at spin tonight ❤️.” But Mom knew.
When she confronted him, he didn’t deny it. He said, “I just need someone who inspires me again.”
I wanted to drive over and scream at him, but Mom asked me not to. She said she needed to handle it her own way.
For weeks, she was quiet. She didn’t cry much. She didn’t rant. She just… thought. Then one night, she told me she was going to meet him for dinner to “talk things through.”
The next day, she came home with this calm expression. She said, “He thinks we might try again. But I told him only if he loses 15 pounds first.” I stared at her. She grinned—not a bitter grin, but a knowing one.
“I told him it’s just a challenge,” she said. “Like he gave me all those years ago. But I also told him he’d have to stick to it for three months. No excuses.”
I realized then—she wasn’t actually taking him back. She was setting him up for a taste of his own medicine.
Over the next few weeks, Dad texted her updates about his workouts and meal plans. She’d reply with polite encouragement but nothing warm. Meanwhile, she was quietly meeting with a lawyer.
When the three months were up, he’d lost the weight. He called her, excited. She met him for coffee and told him she still wanted the separation to be permanent. She said, “You passed your own test, but I failed mine—I can’t trust you anymore.” Then she walked away.
He was furious. Said she’d “wasted his time.” But for the first time in decades, I saw Mom stand tall without flinching.
That was five years ago. She’s since bought a little house near the coast, started a pottery business, and joined a hiking group. She laughs easily now. And she never, ever “tests” people.
Looking back, I realize the weight story was never about pounds—it was about power. About making someone prove they’re worthy, instead of loving them as they are.
The twist? A few months ago, I ran into Dad at the grocery store. He looked older, smaller somehow. We chatted briefly, and he mentioned that the gym woman had left him. Apparently, she told him she was “tired of his constant conditions.”
I didn’t gloat. But as I walked away, I couldn’t help thinking—karma doesn’t always hit hard, but it hits true.
If you love someone, don’t make them earn the right to be loved. And if someone makes you prove yourself over and over, maybe the real test is whether you can walk away.
Thanks for reading—if this hit home, share it with someone who needs the reminder, and don’t forget to like the post.