Brandon monitored plates. He monitored portions. He gave speeches about self-control while eating burgers in front of me like a man auditioning to be shoved through drywall.
Brandon monitored plates. He monitored portions.
One evening, he brought home my favorite burger and ate fries while I chewed celery so hard I could hear it in my skull.
“Do you hear yourself?” I said.
He looked away. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”
He was doing what made him feel powerful. There is a difference, and it matters.
Next came the pantry lock. “Because you’ll cheat,” he said.
I started crying at strange times. During diaper changes. In front of commercials with sandwiches. Once, while Sophie was nursing and I saw an ad for pasta, I had to press my lips together because my stomach made a sound loud enough to seem offended.
He was doing what made him feel powerful.
When my mother-in-law Linda showed up, I was so exhausted that I mistook quiet for strength.
She visited often, and Brandon was always careful and image-conscious around her.
Linda was the kind of woman who could hold a cake in one hand and a warning in the other. Warm, practical, and sharp. The kind of mother who notices when your smile arrives half a second too late.
Yesterday, she came by with a homemade meat pie for me and blankets for Sophie.
Before I could reach for the pie, Brandon came in and took the bag. “I’ll put that away.”