She doesn't mean to say the things she does. But somehow the words slip out and she sees it all in her eyes: I thought you were supposed to love me regardless of what I looked like, momma.
She drops her daughter's gaze and continues picking up.
"You know I'm right," she says. "If you continue eating the way you do, you won't fit into your prom dress. And it'd be a shame."
She walks to the door, thinking that the only thing that's shameful about their exchange is the way her little girl's cheeks got red and she self-consciously adjusted her body, hiding her body.
"I love you," she promises, leaving the room immediately, lest she heap more doubt and self-hatred.
Whoever said being a mother was easy? They were lying.
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