The boys used to say you had the best body and you believed them. But then your skin stretched, and your belly grew big as a pumpkin before it was sliced clean open. You weren’t sure about anything after that. Stopped caring altogether post-surgery. There were pamphlets with steps. Surveys and pens. There were answers. And there were questions. How long does it take to unlove your curves? Not long, you learned.

Weeks went by and your eyes swelled like mid-spring gray skies as you pored over plans and advice. How-tos with big promises meant to help you lose what you gained. You did things you hated just to feel good, or to feel anything, really. But what you needed wasn’t online or in a book—it was standing by your side, about three feet high.

Remember? It was wet, but you went out anyway, took your son to the park. You felt hollow as a hole in the earth, but the holes that morning were full from the midnight rain. Your son ran to one, grinned at his little reflection waving back, reached for your hand and begged you to look. You held your breath, then let it go in a huff as you looked down at your rippling wrinkles and puffy melasma-plagued cheeks. You couldn’t see your belly but saw your double chin and failed attempt to hide it with your brittle brown hair. Strands hung strategically from your bun, loose like your tongue as you whispered, “What happened?”

Water and muck shot into the air as your son began jumping, having his fun. Innocent and young. He ran off to the slides, frolicked as you stayed put, lost in thoughts of your lacking, your wanting. You picked up a stick and swirled it in the puddle, hoping beauty would stir in among the wilted leaves and waterlogged mulch.

The night before you had explored your cellulite and stretch marks with your fingers in the dark. Moonbeams streamed into the bathroom, but you didn’t need to see, you could feel for yourself. You heel-toed, heel-toed your legs out wide until your thighs didn’t hug, didn’t kiss. Intrusive thoughts split open your pride, urged you to muse endings and pauses of the unthinkable kind. A cry sent you running, quick like your milk. You settled your newborn daughter, let her take every ounce you had left. Reached for the bottle when your chest gave in. Screamed in your mind until sunrays lightened the room, bringing your son with them.

You had to wear old pants that morning. The ones stuffed in a drawer, forgotten and ripped. You pulled them on until the frayed hems tickled your stubby toes and you wiggled and giggled and felt free as the loose waistband rose over your tender scar and hip dips, resting comfortably under your ribs. The blue shirt you put on was too tight, so you flexed your back and sighed when the seams tore just enough to give you room to breathe. You were dressed. That would have to do.

You sauntered outside, son in tow, to the playground and that gleaming ground mirror that tempted you. Taunted you. You gripped the stick and willed the puddle to whirl. Then the wind blew a kiss and the water glimmered with hope. So deep in concentration, you failed to notice your son had returned until his small hands shoved you and “You’re it” flew from his mouth to your ears. It happened so fast—he was quick like that. Before you could shout, you hit the ground. Your hands sank into the cold mud. Body splayed wild on all fours. Bewildered and surprised. Pants somehow dry. Swimming with guilt for not being in the moment with your son as he pleaded, “Mom! I wan youh to be happee!”

His words, like a spell, healed something deep inside. Altered your perspective unlike any reflection could ever do. He didn’t care about the shape of your body or the size of your jeans. He was fixed on the size of the smile that pulled at your lips. On the joy in the howl that burst from your throat like a river unleashed. He wanted all of you, all of your warmth. You moved toward him, arms outstretched. He smirked and fell into them. You embraced him and yourself too—a mother with dimples and scars and wrinkles and stars in her eyes. In that moment, you let everything else go, let hot tears flow, just felt wanted by a boy who cared more about presence than appearance. Who made you feel beautiful and seen and wonderful. Worthy of his love and your own.