A couple of Dylan’s siblings snickered.
I looked at my husband.
Dylan studied his eggs like they held the secret to world peace.
I let it slide.
“You ate too much for the beach today!”
***
For three days, I survived.
Diane narrated my every meal like a nature documentary.
She informed the beach umbrella vendor that I “used to be so slim.”
She told her sister on the phone, loudly, that some women “let themselves go and blame the baby.”
Each time, the family laughed the same nervous, obedient laugh.
“let themselves go and blame the baby.”
Each time, Dylan found something fascinating in the middle distance.
By the third evening, I stopped waiting for him to defend me.
That hurt worse than anything Diane said.
I rocked my son on the porch while the ocean turned gold, and I made myself a quiet promise.
“I’m done shrinking,” I whispered to my son. “Watch your mama grow a spine.”
