One Small, Enormous Detail

Chapter 1 - Pregrancy

Anna Nourric woke to the scent of those damn tempting pancakes drifting into her nostrils from the kitchen, her mouth already watering. Morning light filtered through the white curtains, illuminating the cheerful chaos of her home: toys scattered across the floor, a half-empty baby bottle with leftover milk from nursing her massive breasts sitting on the table, and a teetering stack of dishes threatening to topple. She smiled, her heart swelling with love for the life she had chosen, as a newborn’s cry and another child’s laughter filled the air. To many people, waking up to crying babies might feel anything but peaceful, but not to her. This was the world she had always wanted, the dream she had nurtured since she was a little girl: a big family, a lively house, a love that grew and rose like dough in the oven. Everything was exactly as she had imagined, except for one thing. One small, enormous detail.

She heaved herself out of bed with a tired huff, the mattress creaking under her truly excessive weight. With a sigh, she ran a hand over her gigantic, round, taut belly, like a soccer ball the size of a snowman. After her first child, she had put on nearly forty kilos, pushed unintentionally by pregnancy hormones in a way that pregnancy books could barely classify as “normal.” But after the second baby, and now with the third on the way, that number had climbed even higher. She stepped toward the full-length mirror, an object she had lately been avoiding. The reflection staring back was one she hardly recognized: her once-sharp, sexy face was now soft, rounded, and harmless, with cheeks that looked like they were smiling even when she wasn’t. Her arms carried thick, jiggly wings of fat; her hips were wide and lush; and her belly… well, that was a masterpiece of engineering in the way it managed to exist in that shape and size, a perfect blend of pregnancy and her own insatiable urge to stuff herself with anything edible she could get her hands on. That belly was enormous, wildly disproportionate, and now, so close to delivery, it was truly gigantic. Immense.

“Just more pregnancy weight,” she told herself, even though she knew it wasn’t normal to gain 40 kilos with the first baby, 25 with the second, and another 20 now with the third. Deep down, a little voice, the one that spoke up in quiet moments, whispered a different truth: it wasn’t just the baby. It wasn’t merely pregnancy that had made her so massively obese at the young age of twenty-five. It was the midnight ice cream eaten to make herself feel bigger, the extra-large portions of lasagna her beloved Alberto brought home after exhausting shifts at work while she told him she still hadn’t eaten dinner, the cookies she munched on while nursing under the excuse of needing energy to breastfeed. It was the way food became her only comfort when emotions overwhelmed her, when the kids’ tantrums and Alberto’s absence left her alone with her thoughts.

Anna ate as much as a family of four without even noticing anymore. It had started with pregnancy cravings. In her mind, she had convinced herself she had to follow them, had to let herself be carried away by them. Because they were a natural part of the life experience she had dreamed of most of all. If she indulged every craving, she would be a good mother, she told herself, and she would raise her children the very best way possible. She would become a good mom whose sole purpose was to nurture and raise her babies. So she never resisted a single craving, and in doing so, she was swept up by an enemy she had never armed herself to fight: her greedy appetite. She had fed it thinking she was doing good for her offspring, while in reality she was condemning herself to the most extreme obesity in the stupidest possible way, stuffing herself relentlessly without ever setting any limits.

Anna turned sideways, studying her grotesque profile: a softly obese woman of 138 kilos and 163 centimeters tall. Her titanic muffin top was no longer just a roll of lard spilling over her jeans, it was a belly that dominated her entire figure and, in a way, defined her as round and cumbersome. That gigantic gut, carrying her third child, was incredibly soft and squashed down into her pants at the bottom, while above it rose taut and commanding. And yet, she couldn’t entirely hate that belly. She hated it and loved it for different reasons. It was the place where her children grew, the symbol of the life she had always wanted. But there was something else too, a thought that embarrassed and intrigued her at the same time: Alberto didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when he came home exhausted, shirt wrinkled and hair a mess, his eyes lit up when he saw her. His hands always found a way to touch her belly, to stroke it with a tenderness that made her blush and secretly wish it would be even bigger the next day. His hands on her tight, stretched belly felt wonderful; Anna’s stomach had developed an embarrassing level of sensitivity that rivaled her most intimate parts. She wouldn’t even admit it to herself, but having her belly touched aroused her. It aroused her as a woman and as a pregnancy-obsessed feeder. Feeling huge and being pampered while pregnant was her drug, she was an addict who had stayed hooked far too long, losing her reason in the act. As soon as she gave birth, she got pregnant again, and four years of back-to-back pregnancies had completely transformed the way she lived.

“Baby, you’re a beautiful wife and mommy,” he had told her the night before, while she complained about not being able to find clothes that fit in any store. Anna had laughed, embarrassed but pleased, brushing it off with a wave of her hand, but inside she felt a warmth she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Was it possible he really loved this grotesque version of her? Even with the extra kilos, the stretch marks, the body that seemed to be slipping out of her control? She felt herself turning into a sort of human dairy cow, in body and in spirit. Something meant only to produce babies and raise them, not so different from what she had wanted as a little girl, but she had never imagined becoming *this*.

A shout from the kitchen snapped her back to reality. “Mommy! Leo spilled the juice!” It was Sofia, her firstborn, who at four years old already considered herself queen of the house. Anna slipped on her robe, the only thing that still fit, and waddled toward the kitchen, the floor creaking under her heavy steps. Lately every movement seemed to require extra effort. Her thighs rubbed together, and her gait had become slow, almost swaying. But there was no time to dwell on it: there was an orange-juice crisis to handle.

In the kitchen she found Sofia with hands on hips, glaring at her two-year-old brother Leo, who sat in a lake of juice. “Not my fault! Bah! Bah!” protested the almost-three-year-old, cheeks smeared with jam. Anna laughed despite everything. “All right, team, let’s clean up this mess.” She grabbed a rag and tried to bend down, emphasis on *tried*, because her belly reminded her that certain movements were no longer simple. She had to use a long-handled mop; bending at nine months pregnant, and probably even without being pregnant with that much weight, just wasn’t happening.

While she cleaned, the smell of the pancakes on the table called to her. She had made way too many that morning, as usual. “Just one,” she told herself, but when she sat down with the kids, one became two, then three, drowned in generous maple syrup as she polished off all the children’s leftovers. Each bite was a tiny moment of peace, a refuge from the responsibilities chasing her. The kids chattered, telling her disjointed stories, and for a moment Anna forgot the mirror, the weight, the fears.

She had made the pancakes for her husband, and she had already eaten with him, this was her second breakfast, and it definitely wouldn’t be her last stuffing session before lunch.

But when Alberto came home that evening carrying a paper bag that smelled of pizza and wearing a tired smile, Anna felt that familiar squeeze in her chest again. He set the bag on the table, wrapped his arms around her from behind, his hands immediately finding her belly. “How are my loves doing?” he asked, his warm voice against her ear. Anna melted, grew aroused, and wanted nothing more than to stuff herself fuller so she could feel even bigger and more worthy of being touched the way he touched her.

“Tired and hungry, sweetheart,” Anna answered, laughing. But as she turned to kiss him, she caught her reflection in the window glass. The truly hungry one was her. The woman staring back was different from the one Alberto had married, but she was certainly no less loved.

As the family gathered around the table, the pizza disappearing quickly and laughter filling the room, Anna wondered if this really would be the last child, as she had promised herself. Or if, deep down, the desire for an even fuller house, an even bigger body, an even greater love would keep growing inside her, just like her belly. She didn’t fully realize it yet, but having a huge, food-stuffed or baby-filled belly had become her addiction. And Alberto, who had always supported her desire for many children, loved having a wife at home, always available and obedient, constantly producing babies, unable to leave him and guaranteed to stay. Alberto wasn’t struggling financially; he had become a department manager at a multinational and could easily support Anna’s craving for a “giant” family, even with the impact it had on her body.