OK," I said to my daughter as she bent over her afternoon bowl of rice. "What's going on with you and your friend J.?" J.is the leader of a group of third-graders at her camp—a position Lucy herself occupied the previous summer. Now she's the one on the outs. and every day at snack time, she tells me all about it, while I offer the unhelpful advice all summer long．
"She's fond of giving orders, "Lucy complained. "She's turning everyone against me. She's mean. And she's fat." "Excuse me," I said, struggling for calm. "What did you just said?" "She's fat." Lucy mumbled（含糊地说）. "We're going upstairs," I said, my voice cold. "We're going to discuss this." And up we went. I'd spent the nine years since her birth getting ready for this day, the day we'd have the conversation about this horrible word. I knew exactly what to say to the girl on the receiving end of the teasing, but in all of my imaginings, it never once occurred to me that my daughter would be the one who used the F word-Fat．
My daughter sat on her bed, and I sat beside her. "How would you feel if someone made fun of you for something that wasn't your fault?" I began. "She could stop eating so much," Lucy mumbled, mouthing the simple advice a thousand doctors have given overweight women for years.
"It's not always that easy," I said. "Everyone's different in terms of how they treat food．" Lucy looked at me, waiting for me to go on. I opened my mouth, then closed it. Should I tell her that, in teasing a woman's weight, she's joined the long tradition of critics? Should I tell her I didn't cry when someone posted my picture and commented, "I'm sorry, but aren't authors who write books marketed to young women supposed to be pretty?"
Does she need to know, now, that life isn't fair? I feel her eyes on me, waiting for an answer I don't have. Words are my tools. Stories are my job. It's possible she'll remember what I say forever, and I have no idea what to say.
So I tell her the only thing I can come up with that is absolutely true. I say to my daughter, "I love you, and there is nothing you could ever do to make me not love you. But I'm disappointed in you right now. There are plenty of reasons for not liking someone. What she looks like isn't one of them."
Lucy nods, tears on her cheeks. "I won't say that again," she tells me, and I pull her close, pressing my nose against her hair. As we sit there together, I pray for her to be smart and strong. I pray for her to find friends, work she loves, a partner who loves her. And still, always, I pray that she will never struggle as I've struggled, that weight will never be her cross to bear. She may not be able to use the word in our home, but I can use in my head. I pray that she will never get fat.
