Beatrice, who had lingered in the living room rather than putting on her coat, stormed back into the kitchen. “So I’m being completely frozen out and punished now?”
“About bodies,” Daniel told her, his tone uncompromising. “You are barred permanently from shaming people about their physical appearance or food choices in this house.”
Beatrice folded her arms defensively, glaring at me. “It’s rich coming from you two. You asked me six weeks after Clara was born whether I planned to keep the baby weight!”
Her face shifted slightly as she realized what she had admitted.
“Why do you keep repeating this cycle?” Daniel asked softly.
Beatrice rubbed her thumb agitatedly over the edge of her napkin. The sharp, defensive armor around her suddenly cracked, revealing a profound vulnerability beneath.
“Because nobody ever did me any favors by pretending weight didn’t matter,” she muttered.
Daniel paused his plate-stacking.
“My mother weighed me every single Saturday morning,” Beatrice continued, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Before breakfast. If I had lost weight, she would take me shopping for new outfits. If I had gained even a pound, I was barred from having dessert that entire week.”
“How old were you when that started?” Daniel asked gently.
For a fleeting second, looking at my mother-in-law, I didn’t see a critical matriarch; I saw a frightened nine-year-old child desperately waiting for permission to eat.
