“Stop deciding something isn’t harmful simply because you claim your intentions were good.”
Patricia fell silent.
Emma was crying now.
“Do you know why I’ve been so anxious about my weight?”
Nobody answered.
She wiped her cheeks.
“Because every single time I see you, you comment on my body.”
Patricia looked down.
“You said my face was getting round.”
“I was teasing.”
“You asked Ryan whether my doctor had warned me about gaining too much.”
“Pregnancy carries risks.”
“You bought me maternity clothes two sizes too small.”
Patricia visibly flinched.
I hadn’t known about that.
Emma continued.
“And when they didn’t fit, you said, ‘Well, that was optimistic.’”
Ryan closed his eyes.
I had heard enough.
“Patricia, why?”
She looked at me.
“Why what?”
“Why are you so fixated on my daughter’s body?”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been tracking a pregnant woman’s weight closely enough to know the exact number from her medical chart.”
Patricia’s answer came quickly.
“I care about my grandchild.”
That was when Ryan looked at his mother and quietly said,
“No.”
Patricia turned toward him.
“What?”
“You don’t get to use the baby as an excuse.”
Her face crumpled.
“I’m your mother.”
“And Emma is my wife.”
“I know.”
“Then start treating her like it.”
Patricia sat down.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then something unexpected happened.
She started crying.
Not performative tears.
Real ones.
Her shoulders shook as she whispered,
“I gained seventy pounds when I was pregnant with you.”
Ryan frowned.
“What?”
“My doctor humiliated me every time I went in.”
The room stayed quiet.
“He used to circle my weight in red ink.”
Ryan stared at her.
“You never told me that.”
“Why would I?”
NEXT PAGE
