Then she looked up.
She took the tape measure from my shaking hand. Unspooled it. Looked me dead in the eye. “Your father,” she said, “is a good man. Kind. Generous. He brings me tea in bed. But he is a pencil . A number two pencil with a broken tip.” mama fiona – your stepmom is a size queen
Bonus: Social Media Caption (for an NSFW Twitter/Reddit post) r/confession: My stepmom Mama Fiona is a size queen. I found her laminated "girth chart" in the garage. Instead of killing me, she made me sit on the bathroom floor while she measured me with a tailor's tape. Turns out I'm "ambulance-tier." She spent the weekend coaching me on technique so I "don't hurt anyone." I’m terrified and also strangely grateful. Send help. Or more lube. Then she looked up
“You’re in the ‘call an ambulance’ row.” Looked me dead in the eye
Mama Fiona. Six feet of Irish-Italian fury in stilettos. She didn't cook us casseroles. She rebuilt the deck. She didn't gossip. She read The Economist and could deadlift a Buick. I hated her for about six months. Hated how she looked at me like I was a loose screw she hadn't gotten around to tightening.
“I didn't marry him for his body. I married him for the house. But you… you’re not him, are you?”
I tried to close the box. I swear I did. But my phone buzzed. A text from her.