Free Sweet Girl by Rachel Hollis

eighteen years old, and pride won’t let me go back now.
    I take another bite of my food, though I’m not really hungry anymore. I force a smile as my mom laughs at a story my dad is telling and reaches out to squeeze his hand. This is the woman who taught me to cook, the one who gave me a love of baking, forged over a thousand sugar cookies. This is the person who showed me exactly what to eat so that I could enjoy at least one of those cookies we’d worked so hard to create without throwing off my insulin.
    As a food lover, she’d understand my excitement and celebrate any accomplishment with me. But as my mother, she’d never accept a situation where I’m knowingly choosing to do something in direct opposition to what’s best for my health. It’s not even up for debate. I can’t tell her about Dolci.
    I can’t tell her, or anyone else for that matter, because they’re all in cahoots with her. They’ll all worry and obsess and make my life hell, and I can’t handle that, because I’m going to need every ounce of energy I have to keep a job I had no business getting.
    “I’m sorry, what?” I ask. I didn’t realize she was addressing me.
    “I said”—she smiles sweetly across the table—“Kenzie, what’s new with you?”
    I can’t remember how long it’s been since we made it through an entire meal without arguing. I don’t want to ruin this new truce, and I’m definitely not ready to tell them what’s really going on.
    I plaster a smile on my face and let the necessary lie fall from my lips. “Oh, not much.”

    It takes about a hundred cotton balls doused in acetone to remove every trace of polish from my nails.
    My hands look sad and boring without the dark paint I’m used to, but I can’t give Joey another reason to call me out. Especially since I’m going to disobey a direct request she gave me. I know it’s stupid to take such a risk, especially since my job is in no way guaranteed, but I just can’t remove all of my bracelets. I take off all but two.
    I unclasp the smaller bracelet and wrap it around the bigger one like a vine before closing it up again. Without inspecting it closely it would be impossible to tell that it’s two separate pieces.
    One of the bracelets is the medical badge that identifies my condition. The other is a small inscribed piece that identifies my mistakes.
    I won’t ever forget those mistakes, just like I won’t ever forget the day I knew I needed something to remind me of them.

    I didn’t get the chance to tell her to come in, because she didn’t knock or ask for permission. She just barged into my room, and even across the dimly lit space, I could see her concern through my swollen eyes. Apparently the confirmation of my tears was enough to rein her in, though, because she closed the door behind her much more quietly than she’d opened it. She crossed the space to my bed carefully, as if landmines might be hidden under the hardwood. Each step just made me more emotional. At nineteen I was far too old to be crying to my mother about my problems, but I didn’t try to stop the tears; what was the point now that she’d seen them?
    She sat down on the edge of my bed and reached out to turn the lamp up on my bedside table. The light wasn’t much stronger, but it must have been enough for her to get a good look at how ravaged my face was from another night of sobbing. It wasn’t the only time I’d cried myself to sleep since I came home; it was just the first time she’d walked in on me doing it.
    “Mackenzie”—she reached out gentle fingers to push my hair back from my face— “sweetheart, I wish you’d speak to me about what’s going on.”
    Another tear followed the well-worn track down my cheek. I didn’t answer her, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t stop her from trying to comfort me.
    “Did . . . ” She searched my face. “Did something bad happen?”
    I couldn’t help it. I snorted in response.
    It was a disrespectful