chapter 7

When we arrive at your parents’ house, I walk around to your side of the car to help you out. You let out a huge burp as I pull you by the arms and you stumble out of the car. You try to hike your leggings up over your gut and waddle to the front door.

“Sweetheart!” your dad calls from the door, “My, my! Someone is getting back to their old self!” he says as you pant and grunt up the driveway.

“This is too hard,” you whine, and I immediately come to your assistance. I give you a soda and let you lean on me as we walk up the rest of the short driveway to the door. You really are not used to moving this much at all.

Your father takes us straight into the dining room where your mother was waiting. “Oh my God,” she gasps when she sees you waddle through the door frame, “We’re going to need to get her special chair from high school.”

“Oh don’t worry, sweetheart,” your father replied, “I had a feeling our baby might have put on some happy love weight in her first year of marriage, so I already brought the chair out this morning.” He motioned to a custom dining room chair that matched all the others except it was double the width.

You plop into your custom fat chair, red-faced and winded. “When’s dinner?” you ask, sputtering for air.

“Coming right up!” your father exclaims as he bolts into the kitchen. He and your mother carry out platters of roasted chicken, buttery mashed potatoes and stuffing, thick gravy, baked ham, and bacon and peas. They pour out wine and leave a bottle in front of each of us. “Dig in!”

You grunt as you try to lean over your big belly and put food on your plate. “Oh don’t struggle, dear,” I say, “I’ll make you a plate.” Drool forms on the corner of your fat lips as you watch me heap your favorite foods onto your plate.

I’m not sure if it was all the exercise of getting there, your mother’s cooking, or the shame of being back in your fat chair - but you give in like I’ve never seen. As your belly swells, your leggings slowly roll down your waist until your gut pops out from them. You unconsciously fondle your lower belly and bellybutton. Moaning, you lean back and shovel the last of your fourth plate into your greedy face. You let out a huge burp and seem to come to. I expect you to say you’re full, but instead you demand, “Dessert!”

Your father jumps and comes back from the kitchen with a bowl of homemade whipped cream and a chocolate pie.

“Pieee,” you moan as you swallow huge spoonfuls of pie and cream. You finish about half the pie, and fall asleep mid-bite. Your huge, distended gut is covered in grease and chocolate. Your shirt is stained, and your cheeks and chins are sticky with food. As you snore in your chair, your pie spoon resting on your belly, I can't believe how far you've let yourself go in only a year.

"Remember how she used to fall asleep during dessert when she was little too?" your father asks your mother. They sighed.

It takes a lot to wake you and get you out of your chair, but with the promise of drive-thrus on the way home, I manage to get you moving. On our way out, your father stops me. “She's very happy, and I expect she'll only get happier,” he whispers and hands me another envelope with a check. This one is for $10 million.