Enid messaged me a photo a few weeks later. It was of Hicks at Target — unshaven and wearing a threadbare hoodie. His face looked older and bloated somehow. Even his eyes seemed dull.
Not long after that, at a postnatal checkup, a kind nutritionist named Dr. Apone gently took me under her wing.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I guess I didn’t know I had the option.”
“No pressure,” she said. “But you’ve given so much of your body to others. Maybe it’s time to come back to it.”
“Maybe it is,” I said, feeling something in me soften.
With her help, I began again. It started with slow walks, quiet meals, and clothes that fit instead of hiding. I was instructed not to use a scale. And soon, I started returning to myself.
Then came the call from Ginny’s mother.
“You gave me a baby,” she said. “Khal, let me take care of you, please. It’s not monetary, of course, but let me help. Please.”
She owned a chain of high-end salons and insisted that I come in for a full day — hair, skincare treatments, new clothes, and nails. Continue reading…
