I think about the Thing We Don't Talk About, and wonder if it could be happening again. Emma sees a therapist once a week, and I try to convince myself that if something was wrong, her therapist would know and make everything better. But I'm not sure it's that simple. I mean, I know it's not.
"She's still not really herself," I say. "It's like, in losing all that weight, she also lost who she really is. I feel like I don't know her. Like Emma is gone, and there's this stranger living in her body. It's like..." I swallow the hurt rising up in my throat. "It's like she died," I say quietly. "Or at least part of her died."