The steam in the bathroom has become a thick, opaque veil, turning the glass shower door into a frosted mirror. Marielle stands there, the hot water drumming against her shoulders, but her eyes are fixed on her own blurred reflection in the glass.
She stares at the silhouette of her body, the wide, feminine curve of her hips, the heavy, aching weight of her breasts, and the long, elegant lines of her legs.
She tries to maintain the lie. She tells herself she is a martyr, a selfless mother performing a grim duty to save her son.
She tells herself that her body is merely a tool, a currency to be spent in a high-stakes negotiation. But as she looks at her reflection, the lie begins to crumble.
Her body is a traitor. Even as her mind screams in protest, her physical self is singing a different, much more primal song.
