The hormones had changed me even before the pregnancy. Then the pregnancy finished the job.
That was the language of a man talking about a dent in his car, not about a woman who had nearly torn herself open giving birth to his daughter.
One afternoon, I came downstairs with Sophie on my hip and stopped cold. The refrigerator handles were locked.
Brandon looked up from his laptop and smiled. “Finally. Now you’re going to lose the baby weight.”
“What is that?”
“Very simple!” he said with a shrug. “I’ll unlock it two or three times a day and control what you take in!”
“Brandon, I just gave birth.”
“Two months ago.”
“That means… still just gave birth.”
The refrigerator handles were locked.
He leaned back. “Emily, have you even looked at yourself lately? I’m only trying to help you.”
Help. That word should have come with a siren.
For days, he treated the kitchen like a border crossing.
If I wanted yogurt, I had to ask him. If I wanted chicken, I had to ask. If I wanted half a sandwich because Sophie had finally fallen asleep and I had seven free minutes, I had to stand there while my husband typed numbers into a lock and watched what I took out.