My body had changed because my life had changed.
It had carried our daughter.
Fed her.
Held her through sleepless nights.
Survived exhaustion I didn’t know I was capable of surviving.
There was nothing funny about that.
Nothing shameful.
Nothing disastrous.
The real disaster had been a husband who looked at the woman doing almost everything to care for his child and saw something to mock.
Whether he could become better than that was now his responsibility.
Learning to stop seeing myself through his eyes was mine.
