That I should be grateful for whatever scraps of attention I got.
Like she didn’t laugh when relatives pinched my cheeks and commented on my weight.
Like she didn’t warn me that being plump would make my life harder, my options fewer, my worth conditional.
Like she didn’t look the other way when I cried.
Like she didn’t stop answering my calls when I finally needed her most.
And sitting across from her?
Smug. Relaxed. Right at home.
Is another serpent in the garden.
Dan.
Fucking Dan.
My ex.
My mistake.
The man who dismantled me piece by piece and then had the audacity to act like I should thank him for it.
My chest locks up.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
It’s like my body remembers before my brain catches up—every late-night argument, every snide comment about my food, my clothes, my job, my body.
Every moment I swallowed my hurt because I thought love was supposed to feel like endurance.
My mother knew.
She knew what he did to me.
She knew how I felt.
Knew I was afraid.
And she let him sit at her table anyway.
I feel something inside me crack—not shatter, not explode—but split clean down the middle.
A quiet, decisive break.
All the excuses I’ve made for her over the years come rushing back, just to die.
She’s from a different generation.
She means well.
She just wants me to be safe.
No.
She wanted me small.
