Part 1: 

My mother hadn’t eaten at a restaurant in months.

And the longer that went on, the more it bothered me.

When I was growing up, Mom—Molly—loved going out to eat. She treated even an ordinary dinner like an occasion. She studied menus carefully, convinced everyone to taste whatever she ordered, and somehow knew the waiter’s life story before dessert arrived.

But over the years, something changed.

Restaurants stopped feeling comfortable to her.

Not because she stopped enjoying the food.

Because people stopped keeping their opinions to themselves.

Strangers had made comments about her weight more times than I could count.

Some whispered while staring at her plate.

Others laughed quietly enough to pretend she couldn’t hear.

And a few had been cruel enough to say things directly to her face.

Each incident took something from her.

Eventually, whenever I invited her out, there was always an excuse.