“Are you mad at me?” It came out too fast.
“No, baby. I’m not mad.”
“I stood you up.” I pressed my forehead against the cool stone wall. “We had plans and I?—”
“You have a life. I can’t control every second and element of it, sweetheart. I understand that.”
I closed my eyes. The words were reasonable. The tone was gentle. None of it touched the self-loathing already sliding under my skin.
“You aren’t punished because you’re going to spend time with your mom,”
“Okay,”
He was quiet for a beat. “Madeline.”
“Yes.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Do you… think I’m looking old?”
He went silent in a way that wasn’t dangerous, just stunned. “…What?”
“Or that I’ve put on weight.” I stared at the pattern in the marble. “You can be honest.”
“What has prompted this,”
“Just thought I saw… lines in the mirror. And those pictures I sent. I looked… heavy.”
The pause stretched.
“Baby, if anything, you’re too small. There aren’t any lines. If there were, I’d kiss every single one and then threaten whatever gave them to you.”
My throat squeezed. My eyes burned.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “She’ll be back.”
“Message me,” he said. “Updates. Where you are. How your head is. That’s not optional anymore.”
“Okay.”
I ended the call, already hating the day that awaited for me.
The rest of the morning was a blur of boutiques. Four, maybe five. Hard to track when everything smelled like perfume and money and quiet cruelty.
My mother moved through them with the precision of a handler selecting weapons.
She rejected every dress I liked.
“That colour washes you out.”
“That cut makes your hips look wide.”
“That neckline is vulgar.”
“That silhouette makes you look… sturdy.”
I turned again, pretending the wool-rough fabric wasn’t scratching my skin. She studied my reflection with her arms folded.
