For a long time, I thought we were happy.
Then, about two years ago, things changed.
It started small.
Max started going to the gym. Five days a week. Then six. He hired a personal trainer. He started drinking green smoothies and posting pictures of himself flexing in the mirror.
That was fine. I was glad he was taking care of himself.
But he
started looking at me differently.
At dinner, if I took a second helping of pasta, he’d raise his eyebrows.
“You sure about that?”
When I got dressed for his company holiday party, he looked at me in the doorway and said, “Is that what you’re wearing?”
It was a navy dress. I’d worn it before. He used to say it was his favorite.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s just a little tight now.”
I changed. Into something looser. Something that hid more.
I didn’t say anything. I’d just had June eight months before. My body was different. Of course it was. I’d been pregnant three times. I’d carried two babies and lost two. I was up at night nursing. I was working full time. I hadn’t slept more than five hours in a row in almost a year.
But I thought maybe he was right. Maybe I’d
