“Emily, your husband’s anxiety has a reason, but that doesn’t justify taking photographs without your consent. It’s good that the two of you have finally talked about it. What’s important now is that he respects your boundaries, and that you stop hiding your symptoms just to keep him from worrying.”
Three months later, I was standing in our backyard again.
I was wearing the same pink swimsuit.
The one I hadn’t dared to wear for thirteen
years.
Daniel stood in front of me, holding his phone.
“May I take your picture?”
I smiled.
“Yes, you may.”
He took just one photograph.
That evening, we looked at it together.
For the first time in years, I didn’t try to hide my belly.
And when Daniel asked whether I liked the photograph, I answered:
“Yes. Because this time, I knew exactly why you were taking it.”
He wrapped his arms around me.
And for the first time in seventeen years, when he asked how I was feeling before bed, I didn’t give my usual answer.
I told him the truth.
“I’m still a little scared, Daniel. But I’m feeling much better now.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Then tonight, I’ll simply stay beside you.”
That night, for the first time in months, I slept peacefully, without fearing that someone would secretly touch my body while I was asleep.
And
the following morning, when I woke up, Daniel was making breakfast in the kitchen.
Our new photograph was sitting on the table.
