Chapter 3: Appetite and Appearance

I started to think Natalie was faking her morning sickness, and I even thought I had proof.

Because one night she went from puking non-stop to suddenly craving everything in sight.

It was like a switch flipped. I walked in one morning and there she was, scrolling DoorDash, drooling over cheesesteaks and barbecue ribs.

Maybe she just got tired of pretending.

She sounded brighter, more energetic. It didn’t make sense. Before I’d even poured my coffee, she was rattling off takeout orders—pancakes, hashbrowns, even a milkshake.

From that day on, not only did the puking stop, but she became a bottomless pit.

The fridge filled with leftovers and snacks—chips, peanut butter cups, late-night fries from the drive-thru. The trash can overflowed with wrappers. Every morning, the bathroom scale seemed to groan a little louder.

Her weight jumped from 100 to 122 pounds in just two months.

I pretended not to notice, but I couldn’t help but watch her get rounder every day.

122 pounds might be normal for some, but for her—she’s only 5’2”—it was a lot. She started waddling from room to room, out of breath from just climbing the stairs. I’d catch myself thinking, ‘She’s barely taller than the kitchen counter, how does she move around with all that weight?’ It sounded harsh, but it’s what ran through my head.

By month five, she really had turned into a water tank—143 pounds. The doctor even pulled me aside at her checkup, talking about healthy weight gain. I tuned him out, fixated on my own embarrassment.

What I dreaded most was running into someone I knew whenever we went out. In a town like Silver Hollow, you can’t hide—everyone knows everyone. The thought of friends or old classmates seeing Natalie so bloated made me want to crawl out of my own skin.

Every time we bumped into an acquaintance, I’d try to vanish—duck behind Target shelves or make a break for the parking lot. If someone stopped to chat, I’d mumble about being in a hurry.

But Natalie was the opposite—she’d strike up conversations with anyone: neighbors, cashiers, even the kettle corn guy outside Walmart. She’d rub her belly and beam at every comment about the baby. The less I wanted to be seen, the more she insisted on going out.

She’d leave Post-it notes on the fridge with grocery lists, remind me to Venmo her for bills, and joke about snagging Target Circle deals. Every weekend turned into a marathon of errands—baby bathtubs today, diapers tomorrow, always another trip. I’d sneak off to electronics, but she’d hunt me down with a list as long as my arm.

She knew by month three that it was a girl—we’d already bought a pink onesie with yellow ducks and started filling out baby name quizzes online.

Her family always joked she had champagne taste on a beer budget, but she seemed determined to buy the best of everything for our daughter. I didn’t get it.

Her parents spent their lives working and saving, but since they’d raised a daughter who couldn’t stop spending, wouldn’t it all end up being mine anyway? Sometimes, picking up rent checks from her family’s properties, I’d imagine that money landing in my lap. I’d watch her splurge at Pottery Barn and think, ‘It’s all coming back to me sooner or later.’