Chapter 1 - sweet sixteen

"You know dear, you should really think about eating something a bit more healthy than... that."

Samantha looked down at the half-empty bag of Doritos on the ground, as well as the discarded cans of Coke on the coffee table, and scoffed. "So? I'm not you."

"You're not," replied Sharon, "but you do have my metabolism. And from the way you're eating those, you seem to have my appetite as well."

"But I don't have your inability to follow a diet."

Sharon concealed her rage, setting down her laundry basket and holding a hand up to her ear. "What was that?" she asked sarcastically. "Sounded like you said 'I changed my mind, mom, I don't want a car for my birthday after all!"

"Alright, mom, I'm sorry! It's just... I'm still young, I'll be fine for a while!"

"I was just like that when I was your age!" Sharon replied. "And then as I closed in on thirty, the pounds started sticking to my hips and never let go! It happened to me, and it'll happen to you too."

"Yeah, if I sit around all day like a slob!"

Sharon just held out an accusing hand, pointing to how Samantha was sprawled out across the couch.

"Okay, point taken. But I'm still-"

"Athletic enough to keep it off? So was I, dear. Girl's 4x200 relay, made it to state three times, state champs in '78. And that still got me here." Sharon turned so that her ample ass was facing Samantha and squeezed her fleshy cheeks, giving it a couple shakes to emphasize her point.

"Eww, mom, stop it!" Samantha said, half-revulsed, half-laughing. "I get your point! But for the record, I am finishing these chips."

Sharon turned her nose up in mock-haughtiness, picked up the laundry basket, and started strutting toward the stairs. "Fine by me. But when you stop getting carded at bars and you go up a jean size for the fifth year in a row, don't come crying to me!"

Samantha lifted her head and watched her mother go up the stairs, briefly transfixed by the constant jiggling of her mother's behind. She wasn't wrong; the pounds certainly did stick to it, and not in a flattering way. While other women were blessed with asses that seemed round and pert at any size, Sharon looked like someone was trying to smuggle bulk-size bags of cottage cheese in their jeans. There was no shapeliness or form to them, just two lumpy, amorphous masses that would sag freely without clothes holding them in. They were complemented in the worst way possible by her thighs, which resembled overstuffed sausages threatening to burst right out of their denim casings.

The rest of her mother's body painted a similarly grim picture of the future. Her sweater had come untucked and rode up a bit, revealing a thin strip of flesh that was overflowing the waistband above both her hips. Even on the skin on her lower back on bulged with the telltale sign of fat compressed by a waistband. A potbelly, once modest, had been gradually swelled by years of dinner parties, brunchtime mimosas, late-night desserts, and diet "cheat days" into a considerable paunch; if it were on a younger woman, people would assume it was a second trimester pregnancy. The bottom edge of this belly, dimpled with cellulite, hung out in the open and wobbled with every step. Her breasts were overfilling her bra and threatening to escape—not outwards, but downwards, with no pertness to speak of. Sharon's face had taken on a paradoxical combination of softness and roughness, where fat filled in the contours of her cheeks and wrinkles dotted the corners of her eyes and mouth.

With Sharon having gone fully up the stairs, Samantha flopped her head back onto the couch and refocused her attention on the television. She reached for another Dorito and popped it in her mouth, and her eyes soon drifted to more photos of her mother on the wall. She could no longer be called 'svelte' by the time Samantha was born, and one could see she had been hurtling along a decade-plus-long trajectory with a destination at middle-aged obesity. Her sweet tooth was infamous, especially for all things baked or frosted. Cookies would turn up broken in half, brownie trays would suffer death by a thousand nibbles, and cupcakes? A tray of cupcakes baked at 3 PM had yet to survive past midnight in that household. Samantha had a similar weakness for sugar, but unlike her mother, she prided on keeping herself in check when she wasn't exercising enough to burn it off.

'Have I ever really noticed how big mom's gotten?' Samantha asked herself. She reached into the bag for another Dorito, only to find it empty. As she walked to the pantry for another bag, she couldn't shake the thought of her mother's shaking booty from her mind. 'Am I really gonna end up like that?'

She found another bag, Cheetos this time, and headed back to the couch.

'Nah, I'll be fine.'