I cut out sweets. Lived on salads, protein shakes, and those stupid cucumbers. I fed Emma constantly while my own body felt hollow. I’d open the fridge and hear his voice in my head, counting calories, warning me not to ruin my progress.
The scale went down.
I felt worse.
If I lost weight, it proved him right. If I didn’t, I was failing.
The breaking point came at his mother’s birthday dinner.
His mom, Linda, had always been polite but distant with me. Never cruel. Just cool. Her birthday was a big family event—dresses, wine, mountains of food.
That afternoon I stood in front of my closet close to tears. Nothing fit right. I squeezed into a black dress that zipped but showed everything.
Jake looked me over.
“You’re wearing that?”
“It’s the only non-maternity dress that fits.”
He sighed. “Fine. Just don’t go crazy with the food. I don’t want you undoing your progress.”
I said nothing.
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