The Heavy by Dara-Lynn Weiss

projected one or two pounds a
month
. I felt relieved. The machine had been set in motion.
    As our consultation with the doctor ended, my phone beeped with a text from Jeff:
Just got out of a meeting. Sorry. Can I join you now?
    Never mind
, I typed.
We’re finished
.
    As we left the office, I knew that the level of enthusiasm and privacy we’d enjoyed during the first week on the program could not last. We weren’t always going to feel so motivated, and I wasn’t always going to be able to control every meal. Things were going to get harder.

CHAPTER 6
    One night the whole family went to our friends’ house for dinner, joining a number of other couples and a large contingent of kids.
    The kids ate first: pasta and vegetables. I carefully portioned out an acceptably small dish of penne with Parmesan and sparingly served Bea some vegetables, which had been prepared with oil and therefore were not the “free” vegetables we ate at home. While David ate a large portion—penne with Parmesan being one of his all-time favorites—Bea’s dinner was pretty tiny, because unlike David, she wanted to have dessert, too. Which she did, before running off to play with the other kids.
    We adults hung out in the kitchen as my good friend prepared our dinner, Niçoise salad. She peeled and sliced hard-boiled eggs, spooned glistening tuna onto salad greens, added tender chunks of boiled potatoes, threw in some olives, and dressed it all with some great olive oil. It looked absolutely delicious.
    With Bea safely out of earshot, I told the assembled friendsabout our new food strategy and how Bea was understandably grouchy about it. I pointed out how she had complained about how much smaller her pasta serving was than anyone else’s, and how it was hard for her and tough for us to see her go through that frustration, but that it seemed necessary. Our friends were uniformly sympathetic and supportive. They all made Jeff and me feel like we were doing the right thing.
    We sat down to eat. The salad was amazing.
    A few minutes later Bea came into the room.
    “I’m hungry,” she said.
    I didn’t know what kind of fruits or vegetables our friends might have on hand, and I didn’t want to bother them with having to serve her any. Frankly, I didn’t want to bother myself with having to serve her any. She had just had dinner. And dessert. The adults had just started eating.
    Bea’s request for food also seemed to take on a searing significance in the wake of what I’d just shared with the grown-ups. I suddenly felt like there was a spotlight shining on us. I imagined that while everyone was continuing to eat, they were also intently listening to see how I would react to this tricky situation.
    “You had dinner already,” I reminded her.
    “But I’m hungry,” Bea said. It was a routine we’d gone through many times, but never in front of other people.
    “Do you want some salad?” the hostess asked readily.
    “No, thanks,” I interrupted quickly. “She already ate dinner.”
    “I’m still hungry,” Bea pointed out.
    “Maybe you could have like a piece of fruit …,” I said, my eyes scanning the kitchen.
    “If she’s hungry, she can have some salad,” my friend offered again.
    “Okay,” said Bea.
    I stared at the salad. I hadn’t yet calculated the traffic light content of the small bowl I had served myself. I figured that the tuna was a green light or a yellow light. The potatoes and eggs, another green. The olive oil, a green or yellow. Then there were the olives, and how many olives equaled a green light again?
    “I’m sorry. Bea,” I interjected. “It’s got a lot of dressing on it, and—”
    “Just olive oil!” my friend interrupted. “It’s super healthy!”
    I forced a grim smile. “I know, but—”
    “Just a little!” my friend insisted, and pushed the bowl into Bea’s eager hands.
    I didn’t know what to do. My friend was being a hospitable dinner hostess, responding caringly to a child