“Do you still want the family portrait?”
“Yes,” Daniel said quickly. “Let’s get it over with.”
Everyone began to stand.
Then I spoke.
“Wait.”
They paused.
“I want one picture with my girls first. Just me and them.”
Daniel sighed.
“Fine. Then we’ll take one of the four of us afterward.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“I said just me, Paige, and Piper.”
“You’re cutting me out because I told you the truth?”
I stepped closer to him.
“I want one photograph where I don’t have to wonder whether my husband approves of how I look.”
Daniel stared at me.
Once again, he had no answer.
“Fine.”
Elliot tried to stop him.
“Daniel, come on.”
“No. Everybody wants me to be the bad guy? Fine. I’m the bad guy.”
He turned and walked off.
Out of the café.
Across the park.
Toward the parking lot.
No one went after him.
Sam waited.
Then asked gently,
“Still want that picture?”
I looked at my daughters.
“Yes. Please.”
We went to a patch of grass near the lazy river.
I sat down in my dark blue swimsuit.
Celeste passed me Piper.
Kenneth handed me Paige.
Piper promptly put my sunglasses on upside down.
Paige grabbed my hair.
I laughed.
I didn’t pull in my stomach.
I didn’t angle my body.
I didn’t tug at the swimsuit.
I simply sat there in the sun, laughing with my daughters.
Sam took shot after shot.
At last, he smiled.
“I got it. That’s a really good one.”
Then we took the big family portrait.
Kenneth and Celeste in the middle.
Elliot and Jane on one side.
Me and the twins on the other.
There was an empty space where Daniel should have stood.
Kenneth looked at it.
Then at Sam.
“Leave it.”
He paused.
“Let him see what the empty space looks like.”
Kenneth and Celeste drove me home that evening, since Daniel had taken our car.
The twins were asleep before we reached the highway.
For a long while, no one spoke.
Then, at a red light, Kenneth turned to me.
“I’m sorry, Mona.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“I raised him. So somewhere, I did something. Or failed to do something.”
He kept his eyes on the road ahead.
“My father spoke to my mother like that. Not about weight. About her cooking. Her hair. The house. Constant little comments.”
He swallowed.
“I promised myself I would never become him. And I don’t think I did. But I never explained to my sons why those comments mattered.”
He fell quiet.
“My mother used to sing constantly. In the kitchen. In the car. Then one day, when I was around twelve, she stopped.”
He glanced over at me.
“I didn’t realize until years later. After she died.”
His voice softened.
“You were laughing today, Mona. In that picture.”
I looked out the window.
“I don’t want you to stop laughing.”
That night, after the girls were asleep, Daniel was waiting in our bedroom.
“So that’s it? You embarrass me in front of my whole family on my parents’ anniversary and come home like nothing happened?”
I set down the laundry basket.
“Your father showed everyone a photograph. Everything else came out of your own mouth.”
Daniel looked away.
“This entire thing is over a swimsuit.”
“No.”
I opened the closet and took out my pajamas.
“The swimsuit is just where I finally stopped pretending.”
His expression changed.
“Where are you going?”
“The guest room.”
“Mona.”
“You’ve slept there for ten months because you needed rest. It’s my turn.”
He stood up.
“Come on.”
“Tomorrow, we’re going to talk about counseling. Parenting. And what this house has been like since I got pregnant.”
“You’re threatening our marriage because I said you gained weight?”
I looked at him.
“No. I’m deciding whether I want our daughters growing up believing this is how a husband is supposed to talk to his wife.”
He went silent.
“Paige and Piper will be ten someday. Then fifteen. Then twenty-five. They’ll have bodies. They’ll look into mirrors. And everything you say about my body in front of them will eventually become something they hear about their own.”
I picked up my pillow.
“I’m not going to let you teach our daughters to delete pictures of themselves.”
Then I walked down the hallway.
The weeks that followed were hard.
Daniel pushed back at first.
Eventually, he agreed to counseling.
We found Dr. Patricia Reyes.
In our first session, Daniel spent almost an hour explaining himself.
He had only been worried about my health.
He wanted me to feel good.
He was being honest.
I was too sensitive.
Everything he had said came from love.
Dr. Reyes listened quietly.
Then she asked,
“Daniel, when you look at your wife, what is the first thing you see?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Finally, he looked at me.
“I see that she’s tired.”
“And what else?”
He was quiet.
“I see that she used to swim.”
His voice cracked.
“I used to watch her. She was so fast. She was so happy.”
He stopped.
Then spoke almost in a whisper.
“I think I made her less happy. I think I did that.”
Dr. Reyes passed him a tissue.
Change took months.
Some sessions were awful.
Some ended in arguments.
Others ended in tears.
But slowly, things began to shift.
Daniel started putting the girls to bed every night.
Baths.
Pajamas.
Bottles.
Books.
He began getting up for the two a.m. feeding every other night.
He stopped commenting on my food.
Stopped criticizing my clothes.
One evening, I came downstairs in the dark green dress I had changed out of months earlier.
Daniel looked at me.
His mouth opened.
Then he caught himself.
“You look nice.”
It came out almost awkwardly.
As if he were learning a new language.
But he said it.
Months later, as I folded laundry and Daniel rocked Piper against his chest, he asked,
“Am I doing better?”
I looked at him.
“If you want this marriage, don’t tell me you’ve changed. And don’t ask me whether you have.”
He waited.
“Show me. Every day. For a long time. Eventually, I’ll notice without you asking.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
A few weeks later, Celeste mailed us the photographs from the anniversary.
There were dozens.
Kenneth chasing Piper around the fountain.
Celeste holding Paige.
Elliot and Jane laughing in the pool.
The family portrait with the empty space.
Daniel stared at that one for a long time.
Then I found mine.
The photograph by the lazy river.
Piper in my sunglasses, worn upside down.
Paige laughing in my lap.
My dark blue swimsuit.
My stomach.
My thighs.
My arms.
And me.
Laughing.
I sat on the living room floor and stared at it for a long time.
The next morning, I had it printed at eleven by fourteen.
I bought a simple white frame.
And I hung it above our couch.
Right where everyone who walked into the house would see it.
That evening, Daniel came home.
He stopped in front of the picture.
I braced myself.
For a comment.
A look.
A hint that maybe another photo would be better.
Instead, he stepped closer and straightened the frame.
It had been slightly crooked.
“That’s a really good picture.”
Then he went into the kitchen and started dinner.
Almost a year has gone by.
We still go to counseling every other Tuesday.
Daniel still slips now and then.
Last month, he began to comment on a dessert I’d ordered.
Halfway through, he stopped.
“Sorry. That isn’t mine to say.”
Then he ordered one too.
Jane and I sometimes have lunch together now.
She has been teaching me weightlifting.
Not because I want to be thinner.
Because I want to feel strong.
“Strong,” she always says. “Not skinny. There’s a difference.”
“I know.”
“I’m still going to keep saying it.”
And last week, I did something I hadn’t done in almost three years.
I went back to the YMCA.
Six in the morning.
Dark blue swimsuit.
I stood beside the pool for a long time.
Then I dove in.
I swam fifty meters of butterfly.
Badly.
My arms were weak.
My kick was slow.
I had to stop twice.
When I finally hauled myself out, breathing hard and trembling, I heard someone clapping.
I looked toward the bleachers.
Daniel was sitting there with a cup of coffee.
The twins were asleep beside him in their double stroller.
He had gotten up at five-thirty.
Dressed them.
Packed the diaper bag.
Driven them to the YMCA.
And never told me he was coming.
He kept clapping.
“You look like a mermaid!”
I stared at him.
Then he smiled.
“A really slow, really tired mermaid.”
I laughed so hard I nearly toppled back into the pool.
For almost a year after the twins were born, I deleted nearly every photograph of myself.
Again and again.
Until my phone was full of pictures of my daughters and empty spaces where their mother should have been.
No one physically made me press delete.
I did that myself.
But somewhere along the way, I had learned that I should.
Now an eleven-by-fourteen photograph hangs over my couch.
White frame.
A woman in a dark blue swimsuit sitting on grass with two babies in her lap.
One wearing sunglasses upside down.
The woman is laughing.
That photograph stays.
It is never coming down.
Because this time, I didn’t delete myself.
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