At the time, what my mom saw as an insult, I saw as plausible concern, or love even. He wasn’t telling me I looked like I was gaining weight because he didn’t respect me; it was because he loved me enough to care about my health. Sure, he accused me of flirting with the waiter, but that was because he was worried he’d lose me. And yeah, the strange rant about how I didn’t like the ring he bought even though I’d thanked him profusely—and even sexually? That was just his anxiety talking. He needed reassurance.
