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The Short Form

“My Weight”

Kim Henderson


At sixteen, I said I hated my father. Instead of a slap, my mother gave me a smirk and said, “Careful there, all girls marry their father someday.”

I promised I wouldn't, and I didn't. My father's frame filled doorways; his mood loomed like a low ceiling. I dated featherweights and introverts, men whose eyes jumped to me before they made a decision or spoke out. I have my father's build—linebacker shoulders and heavy, flat, feet—and I know how to throw my weight around without moving a centimeter. I married a small, spectacled man: a thinker. He grows heirloom tomatoes, laughs softly at my barbed jokes, plays a storm on the piano but rarely speaks.

We read it in The Kind of Girl.