I look at the plate of food in front of me. Mom has made spaghetti, my favorite dinner. I know she has done it for me. The smell wafts up into my nose, and I turn my face away, away from the temptation.

I know Mom’s eyes are on me, so I take a long, slow sip of water, and begin to push the food around on my plate. “Emma, aren’t you going to eat anything?” She asks.

I want so badly to say yes. I want to say, “Sure, Mom. I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.” But I can’t. Can’t say. Instead, I picture myself at the barre, with the rest of my junior company ballet class. I picture myself in my black leotard, performing jumps with my perfect body. And I push my plate away from me. “I’m not hungry,” I say, and leave.

I examine myself in the mirror, just as I do every night, silently criticizing myself for all the fat I know is there on my body, making me imperfect. Mom walks into the room, and sees me, for the first time, without my baggy clothes.

She gasps. “What have you done to yourself?” She cries.