I didn’t rush to comfort him.
“You made me feel disgusting when I was already at my lowest.”
He told me he’d started therapy. About control. About image. About his father.
We’re in couples therapy now. I’m learning to eat like a person again, not a problem. He’s learning that my body is not his to manage.
And every time I eat cake now, I take an extra bite—for Linda, who stood up, stared down her grown son, and reminded me I never needed permission to nourish myself.
