“Yes,” I say, gripping the box tighter. “We’re closed today. Family… emergency.” I can’t bring myself to say ‘funeral’ to these strangers.
The two men share a look that confirms they’re not here for bread or cakes.
“Who lives in the apartment upstairs?”
I look at Scar Face, trying to muster up some semblance of courage. “I do.” Swallowing thickly, I add, “With my sister.”
“We’ll be back,” Tall One says, pushing off from the window. He brushes past me, his shoulder deliberately bumping mine hard enough that I stumble.
Scar Face takes a final drag of his cigarette, then flicks it directly at my feet. The ember hisses as it lands in the snow beside my shoe.
“Better make sure you’ve got enough pastries for big appetites,” he says, his gaze crawling over my body like something slimy. “Though it looks like you’ve been eating all the profits yourself, huh?”
He laughs, a harsh sound that cuts through the quiet night. As he passes, he shoves me with his elbow, harder than necessary. The box flies from my hands as I lose my balance, landing face-first in a pile of dirty snow at the curb’s edge.
Their laughter echoes as they walk away, not bothering to look back at the damage they’ve caused.
I lie there for a moment, cold seeping through my already damp dress, shame burning hotter than any fever. Mom’sbelongings are scattered across the sidewalk—her lipstick rolling toward a storm drain, her clothes spilling from the torn box.
Wet snow clings to my front as I push myself up while mascara-tinged tears freeze on my cheeks. My hands shake violently as I gather Mom’s things.
“God, why am I always everyone’s punching bag?” I whisper to the empty street, to the cold night, to whatever higher power might be listening. “Why can’t I ever stand up for myself?”
The question hangs in the air, unanswered. I’ve asked it a thousand times before. After Sabrina’s casual cruelty. After Maxwell’s predatory glances. After customers who look at me with barely disguised disappointment when they see I’m not my slim, beautiful sister.
Always the same question to a god that gives me nothing but silence in response.
I finally collect everything, cradling the damp box against my chest. Instead of using the back entrance, which would require me to walk around the building to the back that’s barely lit, I unlock the bakery’s front door.
Inside, the familiar scent of flour and sugar wraps around me, but brings no comfort tonight. The bakery sits in darkness, the display cases empty, the ovens cold. I don’t turn on the lights. Instead, I navigate by memory to the back staircase that leads to the apartment above.
Each step feels like climbing a mountain. My wet dress clings to my thighs, and my feet are numb in my ruined heels. By the time I reach the apartment door, I’m shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering so hard I worry they might crack.
The apartment is dark and cold; I’d turned the thermostat down this morning, trying to save on heating bills. I set the damaged box on the kitchen counter and peel off my wet coat, letting it fall to the floor in a sodden heap.
In the bathroom, I avoid the mirror as I strip off the dress, kicking it into the corner where I won’t have to look at it again. The hot water of the shower stings my frozen skin, but I stand under the spray until the bathroom fills with steam and my fingers wrinkle.
When I finally step out, the mirror has fogged over completely, giving me a momentary reprieve from my reflection. But as I wipe a circle in the condensation, I force myself to look—reallylook—at the body I inhabit.
At size twenty, I’m far from the slim ideal Sabrina embodies without effort. My breasts are full, stomach soft with the kind of curve that no amount of shapewear can truly disguise. My hips are wide, and my thighs touch all the way down.
I turn sideways, examining my profile with the critical eye I’ve developed over years of Sabrina’s comments. ‘Junk in the trunk’ she calls it when she’s feeling generous. ‘Fat ass’ when she’s not.
She’s not wrong. My behind is fat. It’s the kind that makes clothes shopping a nightmare of epic proportions and makes it almost impossible to find things that fit properly.
A soft meow breaks my self-flagellation. Onyx approaches the doorway, his black fur a stark contrast to his white paws. His slight limp both breaks my heart and makes the organ swell with love.
He was just a kitten when Maxwell cornered me in the kitchen. Something about my panicked tone alerted the small fur ball, who went feral and attacked my sister’s boyfriend. Onyx was hissing and spitting as he leaped up onto Maxwell’s thigh and swiped at his wandering hand.
Maxwell retaliated by grabbing Onyx by his scruff and flinging him away. The throw sent him flying against the wall and left him with a limp.
“Hey, baby,” I whisper, wrapping a towel around myself and crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Sorry I was gone so long. Rough day.”
He purrs, rubbing against my damp legs, his yellow eyes blinking up at me with what I choose to interpret as understanding. When I stand, he follows me to the bedroom, jumping onto the bed and settling into his usual spot on the pillow beside mine.
I pull on flannel pajamas, the soft fabric a blessing after the constricting funeral dress. As I slide under the covers, Onyx migrates to my chest, his weight a comforting presence over my heart. His purring vibrates against my skin, a living reminder that I’m not completely alone.
“Just you and me now, buddy,” I murmur into his fur, letting my first tears of real privacy fall into his warm coat. He doesn’t mind, just purrs louder, kneading gently at the blanket over my shoulder.
