Even Death Couldn’t Stop Her

So here’s the scene: My mom is in a hospital bed, post-heart attack. My aunt, my sister and myself are all there to keep her company and the conversation is casual enough. My sister is talking about how much my niece resembles me, which she does, except that she’s a twig at 17 and I was a little on the chubby side at that age. I make this distinction, and my aunt says, “You’ve never been fat or had meat on your bones.” I love her for saying this, but I object with “It’s true, I was chubby.”

Then my mom, who might I remind you is at this point lucky to be alive, somehow finds the energy to weigh in on the conversation. Looking at my aunt, she proclaims, “She was fat!” Then she looks at me and exclaims, “Remember that gold dress picture? You were fat.”

I’m not sure where things went from there because in that moment I was mortified by two facts: One, that I ever owned anything gold, especially a dress; Two, that my mom emphasized the word “fat,” when I clearly preferred to use “chubby,” which truly is more accurate.

Thanks, Mom, for not letting me trick anyone into thinking I’ve always been skinny. I owe you one.