The blue dress had hung at the back of my closet since before Nora was born. It was not expensive or especially flattering, but I had worn it on ordinary evenings when getting dressed did not require calculations about nursing seams, tender skin, or whether I could bend without pain. Four months after delivery, I pulled it forward for Owen’s promotion dinner and discovered the zipper stopped halfway up my back.
I expected disappointment. What surprised me was shame. Owen stood in the doorway bouncing Nora and said the dress could be my motivation. He smiled as if he had offered encouragement, then asked whether I still had the black maternity wrap. I put on the wrap because the reservation was in thirty minutes. While I fastened it, I watched him admire his new jacket in the mirror and wondered when my body had become a group project.
The dinner was at Bellweather, the restaurant where Owen and his oldest friend, Marcus, had worked during college. Marcus had driven three hours to celebrate. I liked him, although we had not spoken privately in years. He greeted Nora first, asked me how recovery was going, and waited for the answer. I said I was tired. Owen interrupted to announce that tired was my entire personality now.
Everyone laughed uncertainly. I did too, because laughter shortened the moment. During appetizers, Owen made another joke about my ordering fries after complaining that the blue dress no longer fit. Marcus did not laugh that time. He looked from Owen to me, then asked how many night feedings Owen handled before work. The table became still. Owen said the evening was supposed to be fun. I realized that fun, lately, meant I absorbed the bruise so nobody else had to notice the swing. I noticed that too.