That evening, I replayed the joke while washing my face. It sounded almost harmless. Greg had been affectionate afterward, and I used that tenderness as evidence against my own discomfort. I didn’t yet understand how harmful such an insincere kindness could be.
We married three years later. During his toast, his best friend said, “Keep feeding her compliments, man. You don’t want her realizing she can do better.”
Three years into our marriage, pregnancy changed my body.
Everyone cheered. Greg squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt, then smiled for the cameras.
Three years into our marriage, pregnancy changed my body much more than I’d anticipated. With our first child, Sophie, Greg said almost nothing about my weight.
He brought me crackers when I felt sick and rubbed my feet at night. I decided I had misjudged him. Maybe marriage had made him gentler, more mature, or more secure.
Bottles crowded the sink, laundry covered chairs, and someone always needed me.
Then Daniel arrived eighteen months later, and Lucy followed thirteen months after him. By then, sleep came in scraps.
The house was never quiet. Bottles crowded the sink, laundry covered chairs, and someone always needed me.
“Are those still maternity jeans?”
