I had started going to therapy, I had made new friends, and I was finally dealing with the health problems I had ignored for years.
My children came to visit me frequently.
And every morning I walked along the beach, feeling the sun’s rays on my face.
She was still a very overweight woman.
But I no longer looked in the mirror with shame.
One afternoon, Margaret came to visit me.
He brought a small wooden box that had belonged to my father.
Inside was a silver necklace and a photograph of him holding me in his arms when I was a baby.
On the reverse he had written:
My Sarah. The most beautiful girl in my world.
I squeezed the photograph against my heart and started crying.
Not because I was unhappy.
But because, at forty-three, I had finally learned something I should have known throughout my life.
I was never too fat to be loved.
