I don’t owe you anything. It was Tovar’s words that came flooding back to me, two years later, as I stood staring at that stupid T-shirt. That’s what I’d been doing all this time. I was eating freely, but still paying a toll for doing so. I was still acting as if my meals required explanation, and by extension, so did I. I still had the impression that because I was not thin, my every bite was being clocked by friends and strangers. The worst part was that, as ever, I was still imagining it — some of it, at least. Surely, it was true, because again, I hadn’t even noticed Tovar’s foodie pics before I heard her talk about them. Thinking back over the last few times I’d gone out to eat with other people, I hadn’t taken much note of what they’d ordered, either. Certainly, that didn’t mean that bias and judgment didn’t exist. Of course they did — they do. And I had internalised so much of it that I was policing myself, better than anyone else. I wouldn’t eat a hamburger without offering a reason. I didn’t buy that T-shirt, because I was afraid.