Just One Look
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 21
Everything in me said this was a bad idea, but despite my fears, I let Rachel talk me into dinner with my mom.
I glanced at her. “Promise me you won’t let her feed me,” I muttered, as I pulled up in front of my mom’s house.
Rachel glanced over at me. “She’s your mom, Pete. Not a wolf pack.”
“Not sure there’s a big difference.”
She gave me a skeptical smile, but I wasn’t kidding. “The last time I visited, I left with a stomach ache, three trays of leftovers, and a full week of guilt.”
“She loves you,” Rachel said, gently.
“She does. She just loves me stuffed.”
As we climbed the steps, I caught a whiff of garlic, butter, and something frying in oil. Of course.
The door swung open before I could knock.
“There’s my boy!” Mom beamed, throwing her arms around me in a hug. “And this must be Rachel! Oh, you’re just gorgeous. Come in, come in, I made a little dinner!”
Rachel gave me a sideways look as she stepped in. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Doesn’t it?” Mom grinned. “I just whipped up a roast chicken, some cheesy scalloped potatoes, rice with cream, and a little spinach quiche. And tiramisu for dessert!”
I looked at Rachel. “You see now?”
We sat at the table—overflowing, of course—and I could already feel my stomach planning an escape.
“Pete,” my mom said, eyeing me like a starving hawk. “Look at you. You’ve lost so much weight. Are you okay?”
“I’m great, actually.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “Is someone else joining us?”
“No, no,” Mom said brightly, setting down a steaming dish of roasted vegetables. “Just us! But Pete hasn’t been eating enough. Look at his cheeks. Hollow! You look like you’ve been skipping meals. Your face is all ... flat.”
“That’s called having cheekbones, Mom.”
“Your cheeks used to be so pinchable!” she said, trying to do exactly that.
“Mom!” I said, leaning back.
Rachel covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I think he looks great.”
Mom sighed, like I’d said I was dropping out of college to join the circus. “I just don’t understand why you’re doing this to yourself. You were always a big boy, but you were happy.”
“No, Mom. I really wasn’t. I never was. I was miserable.”
Her hands froze mid-reach for the serving spoon. “What?”
I took a breath. “I wasn’t happy. Not when I was twelve, and not when I was twenty-eight. And every time I tried to change, you made it harder. You showed up with trays of lasagna when I told you I was dieting. You made me feel guilty for not eating seconds. You acted like taking care of my health was some kind of betrayal.”
She stared at me in stunned silence.
Rachel put a quiet hand on my arm, but I didn’t stop.
“I know you love me. I know you think food is love. But it’s not love if it hurts me. And I need you to understand that this—” I gestured to the table, “isn’t helping. It’s hurting.”
Mom looked down at her folded hands. “I just wanted to feed my son.”
“I know. But what I need now is your support. Not your gravy.”
Rachel gave a tiny snort and quickly covered it with a cough.
Mom didn’t laugh. She blinked a few times, then stood up and cleared her throat. “Well ... the roast chicken is not fried. And I didn’t butter the vegetables.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
“I also didn’t put bacon in the salad.” She sniffed. “I almost did. But I didn’t.”
Rachel whispered, “That’s growth.”
Mom gave her a look, but then—shockingly—smiled. “You’re good for him.”
“Yes, she is. We are both helping each other to lose weight,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue. Instead, she sat back down and passed me the bowl of salad. “Start with that. And no seconds unless you ask.”
“Thank you,” I said, quietly. “Really.”
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