“Wasn’t lunch almost five hours ago?” he asks as we sit watching his sons sports match.
“Who cares,” I respond, tanning myself and admiring my blubber in full sun light. It is mesmerizing in a disturbing way.
“I just thought we could get some dinner on the way home. Don’t you need to eat again?”
I look away and sigh, “Please don’t interrogate me about food. I just want to be left alone with my weird eating habits.”
I actually said it. I told him I don’t want to be asked what I ate, when I ate, how much I ate or if I need to eat again.
“But it’s my job to take care of you,” he says sadly. I cannot even look at him. “I just want to take care of you.”
I don’t ask him if he wants to babysit my demons while I go and binge eat pizza.