When I reached for seconds, he tapped his stomach.
For more than a decade, Greg turned every meal into an inspection. At restaurants, he suggested salads before I had even opened the menu. At home, he counted my potatoes with his eyes.
When I reached for seconds, he tapped his stomach.
“Careful,” he whispered.
The children heard him, but eventually, none of us responded.
I stopped swimming with the kids because Greg made jokes about tidal warnings.
Silence became our household language. Conversations stopped when Greg entered a room. The children exchanged glances I could not interpret, and doors closed more often than before.
I noticed the distance growing between us, but I told myself adolescence explained what I did not want to examine.
Leaving meant explaining everything, dividing holidays, and frightening three children.
I stopped wearing bright colors. I stopped swimming with the kids because Greg made jokes about tidal warnings. I changed in the bathroom and deleted old photos from my phone. Still, I stayed.
