Letting Go

Chapter 1

Chapter One – Just a Little Tighter

Marissa tugged at the waistband of her jeans, trying to make them sit comfortably beneath her softening stomach. They were her “everyday jeans,” the ones that used to hug her hips just right. Now, they pinched at her sides and left angry red marks across her skin by dinner time.

She sighed and pulled a cardigan over her snug tee, letting it hang open in front. The illusion of effort. She glanced at the clock. 3:42 p.m. The kids would be off the bus soon, and she still hadn’t taken the chicken out of the freezer.

She padded into the kitchen barefoot, absently popping a grape into her mouth as she passed the bowl on the counter. Then another. And another. She only stopped when she noticed the nearly empty stem of the bunch in her hand. “God,” she muttered to herself. “Where does it all go?”

The truth was, she knew exactly where it went. Her once-slim waist had softened considerably over the past few months. It wasn’t dramatic—just enough to make her arms feel tighter in sleeves, enough to keep her tugging at her tops, enough to make her hesitate before stepping on the scale.

She told herself it was just age. Hormones. She was forty-three now—these things happened. Still, it stung more than she liked to admit, especially when Josh, her thirty-eight-year-old husband, walked in from work with that same effortless athletic build and barely looked at her anymore.

“Hey,” he said, breezing into the kitchen and grabbing a protein bar from the cupboard. He barely glanced her way. “You didn’t forget about dinner, right?”

Marissa faked a smile. “Nope. Just about to start.”

Josh kissed her on the cheek—quick, impersonal. “Cool. I’ve got a late Zoom with the team, so don’t wait for me if you’re starving.”

He disappeared upstairs, the stairs creaking under his steady, confident steps. She watched him go, then looked down at the soft swell of her belly pressing into her jeans. Her hands lingered there a moment longer than usual.

She hadn’t been to the gym in weeks. The idea of squeezing into her tight leggings and facing the mirrors felt unbearable lately. Besides, there was always something else to do—laundry, groceries, helping the kids with school, filling in at the boutique on Saturdays.

Food had become… easy. Comforting. Reliable. The warmth of mac and cheese, the crisp snap of potato chips, the swirl of whipped cream on her mid-afternoon coffee. Little things that broke up the monotony. Little indulgences she convinced herself she deserved.

She never used to snack this much. She never used to sit for this long.

Later that night, after the kids were asleep and Josh was still locked in his office with his headset on, Marissa stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her tank top and leggings. She stared at the way the fabric clung to her middle, her sides rounded out more than she remembered. Her face, once angular and sharp, was softer now, subtly fuller at the cheeks and chin.

She pinched a roll of belly fat between her fingers and frowned. “It’s not that bad,” she whispered. “I’ll get back on track next week.”

But even as she said it, she felt the quiet resistance. The dull ache of inertia. The pull of comfort over change.

From the bedroom, she heard the crinkle of a protein bar wrapper and Josh’s voice through the headset: “Yeah, I’m good. Just tired. Same old, same old.”

Same old. The words stung.

Marissa peeled off her clothes, slipped into a looser pair of pajama pants, and curled up in bed alone. She pulled the comforter over her softened hips and absently reached for her phone, scrolling through recipes she had no intention of making.

In the morning, she promised herself, things would be different.