This mother hated cooking. She loathed the slick of raw chicken on her fingers. She told her girls to stand up straight so their breasts would stick out farther than their stomachs. This mother ate Little Debbie snack cakes in the dark. This mother did not ask what do you think. This mother brushed her teeth nine times a day. This mother lined up seven almonds and a shot glass of V8 for breakfast. This mother said no thank you to dessert. This mother knew she would not grow old like the others, not have the wrinkled hands of her mother and grandmother. This mother knew she would escape the fate of a round body, a spine curved. This mother cried when she passed the mirror at the Ann Taylor in the mall and saw she had failed. This mother refused to be comforted. This mother knew that by withholding, one gains power. By abstaining, one grows stronger. This mother knew that in times of weakness, one could always purge. This mother did not ask how much would you like. This mother would not let her girls slip into the sloth of a size 10 or god forbid a size 12. This mother would insist on sharing a dressing room with her girls far into their teens to see, to comment, to make sure. This mother two decades later with no sheet pans, no Thanksgiving plans, asks why.