Cucumbers. Just cucumbers.
“These and water should be your best friends now,” he said. “You want to fit through doors again, right?”
I laughed because it sounded absurd. Because if I didn’t laugh, I’d scream.
“I’m breastfeeding,” I said. “I’m starving all the time.”
“Or your body’s just used to overeating,” he replied. “You don’t want to stay like this, do you?”
Something in me folded. I was tired. Raw. Empty. It felt easier to obey than to argue.
So I did.
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.
