At first, I blamed my age. I told myself that women my age gained weight in strange places and that my old dresses had simply become too tight.
When I started feeling full after eating only a few bites, I blamed my appetite.
When I began waking at night with pressure beneath my ribs, I blamed the mattress.
And when the swelling became so pronounced that I struggled to bend over and tie my shoes, I bought three loose dresses and convinced myself that everything would be fine.
My husband, Samuel, had been dead for fourteen years.
I had lived alone ever since, and I had become quite good at making excuses for things I did not want to face.
Then, one Tuesday morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, lifted my nightgown, and stared at my abdomen.
It looked as though I were several months pregnant.
I pressed my palm against the skin.
