I’m a married middle-class mum who had a boob job in my mid-50s and went from a 34A to a 34D. Women have been so catty… but my reasons aren’t what they expect

At the office Christmas party I was the last one on the dance floor. I was wearing a figure-hugging sequin dress and knew I was being blinded by the jealous looks of my female colleagues and the appreciative looks of the men.

In the past I wore a modest jacket over my festive outfits. But this year, at age 56, I finally had the confidence to give it my all.

Why? Because underneath those glittering sequins was the best gift I ever gave myself: a breast enlargement to take me from a 34A to a 34D.

And no, I didn’t do it for a man’s sake. This was purely to give myself a boost of self-confidence.

The impact of breastfeeding two children, and then menopause, left my breasts looking tired and empty for most of my adult life – and feeling deflated with it.

So I couldn’t be happier with my boob job later in life. If my friends felt the same way.

I’ve had everything from catty comments about my showgirl appearance to claims that I stole a hospital bed from a deserving patient. One friend even said she couldn’t leave her husband alone with me anymore!

I honestly didn’t expect this reaction. My husband and children are happy for me. So how come other women have such strong opinions?

After all, how many women my age can honestly claim to be completely satisfied with their cleavage?

I know I wasn’t for a long time.

My decision came after decades of unhappiness. I’ve always had a fairly flat chest, and the differences between me and my friends have been apparent since my teenage years, sometimes making me feel absurdly jealous.

Before I had my children – the first at 28, the second at 30 – I was 34B, but after each pregnancy ‘the girls’ shriveled up. By the time I finished breastfeeding I was 34A. I felt extremely self-conscious about my ironing board profile and hated wearing anything low-cut. There’s only so much you can accomplish with a Wonderbra and chicken breasts.

As I continued to trim over the years with yoga and long dog walks, I felt my body changing; I was gaining weight around my waist and feeling somewhat vulnerable about the aging process. When menopause arrived at age 49, I changed my food intake to prevent further weight gain. But overhauling my diet only made my top half look thinner.

So at age 55, I decided it was finally time to take action.

Admittedly, I’m not the typical boob candidate. My husband and I are both middle class, I worked as a legal secretary for decades and never had any adjustments. But for years I put myself second, both as a mother and as an employee. I was determined to do something for myself.

I sat down with my husband earlier this year and explained my decision. Although he is not a ‘boob man’, he supported me because he knew how much I wanted bigger breasts.

I hadn’t really discussed it with my friends; it felt too personal. I told two people close to me that I was considering it, but based on their reactions when they saw me after the surgery, I don’t think they believed me! If they had, I think they would have done their best to talk me out of it.

After withdrawing the money I needed from my private pension, I didn’t jump into things blindly; I wouldn’t fly to Turkey. After two consultations I paid £6,000 and was able to get in and out on the day of the operation.

I went home wearing a post-op bra. Still quite swollen, everything was a lot bigger than I expected.

But my recovery went according to book and after six weeks I was able to put on a beautiful bias-cut dress with spaghetti straps. I felt like a goddess and loved the confidence it gave me. My husband also loved my new figure.

But while I was elated, I can’t say the same for my friends.

Of the two I originally told, one said I looked like Dita Von Teese (I think it was a compliment). The other joked that she wouldn’t leave her husband alone in the room with me, which hurt my feelings immensely. And since then I have been acutely aware of a subtle distance between us.

In my yoga studio I felt the crackling atmosphere of other women talking about me. Eventually I felt so uncomfortable that I moved to another studio.

But the meeting that upset me most was with an old school friend who I hadn’t seen in a while. We met for coffee, and when she commented on my breast, she assumed it was the result of post-cancer breast reconstruction. I explained to her and said that I had never had cancer and had chosen to have breast augmentation.

In a flash, her sympathy turned to hostility, accusing me of unsuccessfully taking up hospital beds for women needing such an operation, despite the fact that it was a private procedure.

Her reasoning was ridiculous, but inexplicably I felt guilty, not to mention quite upset.

I can only attribute the mixed reactions I’ve had to a toxic cocktail of jealousy and judgment over the fact that I haven’t ‘accepted’ my midlife figure.

Yet it seems so hypocritical; If I had had Botox or used slimming injections, I don’t think my friends would be so critical. Maybe it’s because we assume that even though women have Botox or want to lose weight for themselves, they would only want to have breast enlargement for the sake of a man.

Well, they couldn’t have been more wrong. For the first time in decades I feel completely satisfied with the figure I have. And in January I booked a winter sun holiday so that I can enjoy my new bikini body as much as possible. If my husband has a good time, that’s just a bonus.

• Vanessa Willows is a pseudonym

• As told to Samantha Brick