I grew my hair out all summer so that I could wear it up in a high and slightly off-centre ponytail. Gone was my chin-length bob that framed my round child face, that I was sure made me look chubby. I wasn’t chubby — easy to see that now — but a steady campaign of taunting had made me believe I was. I thought that being fat was the worst thing I could possibly be.
It was forty-three days after she came to be that the first spark began.
Nothing more than a flicker; the sort of thing doctors measure to make blanket statements. Alive. Dead.
She was alive. She was nothing more than a cluster of cells, and on the internet people kept comparing her to food stuffs. Small as a pea. Small as a pomegranate seed. As though I were a farmer of specifically minuscule produce and not a pregnant woman.