Cruel thin lines

Chapter 4

The happiest day of my life was when I was told that I was going to be a mother, I had been feeling tired for a few weeks and had a delay, which was not uncommon, because I was always irregular. I was very active and I used to sleep little, but lately I was sleeping a lot, so my doctor prescribed a pregnancy test. I couldn’t cope with my mind and that same afternoon, on my way back to the apartment, I bought one at the pharmacy.

Those two little lines were what I had always wanted to see. I was more than happy!

I prepared a delicious dinner, dressed for the occasion, and although I was afraid, I believed or needed to believe that having a child of his would soften him up and make him happy.

Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. He went crazy, blamed me for not taking the pill, he didn’t have dinner, locked himself in his study, and I cried for the rest of the night curled up in our bed.

He didn’t talk to me for a week. The first few days I begged him to talk to me, to tell me what he thought; the next few days I chose to ignore him, I moved to my studio where I had a sleeping chair.

One night he came in, hugged me and apologized. It was never the same. We argued all the time and he wasn’t happy.

I was five months pregnant when I woke up with a terrible pain in my belly and blood-soaked sheets. I felt like I was going to faint, the only thing I remember was waking Fabrice up with a heartbreaking scream. The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital in Paris, full of vials and a monitor that wouldn’t stop beeping.

I had lost my baby, my Evangeline and with her the possibility of becoming a mother again. For months I didn’t let him touch me again, he was happy “it was the best” he once said and I hated him! I loathed him! I couldn’t be a mother anymore and he was happy about it.

A few months later we split up. It’s not that I blamed him for what had happened, clearly he wasn’t to blame, but his lack of support and the reality that things weren’t working made me realize it was the best. He didn’t understand it, he still doesn’t understand it, but I think it was the most mature decision I’ve made in years.

I moved to a loft and worked for fashion magazines; yes, the fat girl worked with famous models and all the frivolous and superficial world of fashion.

I secretly envied all those zero sizes, and I was size sixteen.

I plunged for months into a terrible depression, I was alone, I had lost my daughter, the only thing I really wanted in life, I didn’t feel like doing anything, sometimes I didn’t want to work, and I loved my job.

In a few months I went from a size sixteen to a size ten and when the loneliness and the need to be with my family weighed heavily on me, fifteen years later I returned home.

I sold the loft and my car in Paris, and with that I bought an apartment near my parents’ house and a car. No one could say that I was happy, but I was at home and I would start again.