The shock to me about Jessie, when I noticed her a year ago, was her size. She has thick mahogany hair and a creamy complexion, but all I saw was body. For a person who started out so small and doesn’t have big parents, she’s grown into a tall, large-featured, heavy-set girl. I’d heard about her weight now and then from Evie, who prided herself on her size six figure and was always irked by her daughter’s girth, and I’d seen the annual Christmas photo card and sometimes the child herself, but it wasn’t until I was sharing house space with Jessie that I realized how ungainly she is.

A lot of the problem is her posture. That’s the only thing she seems to have inherited from her petite mom, and it’s bad. Jessie has wide shoulders and she carries them slumped. She might wear her weight with grace if she’d let her chest open but as it is she reminds me of a big titian-haired troll, lumbering around so her arms look too long compared to her thick legs.

Evie has always had horrible posture herself. It wasn’t that she’d had teenage height to hide, or an embarrassment of early mammary riches; she was five foot four and an average C cup. She got tested as a kid for scoliosis: negative. Five years ago she reported normal results from a bone density scan.

But she slouches. She walks with her head jutting forward so the back of her neck always bows. Her posture is so bad it counteracts her good figure, the same way a cheap cut undoes the effects of her thick dark-blonde hair and her rampant freckles diminish her skin tone. It used to be I couldn’t stop myself from advising her to straighten up; I’d even poke her gently in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades, trying to tell her body without words to align itself. But she never made an alteration and over time she seems to have built up a hump and resentment. She has also developed asthma and blames it on work, but I read somewhere that chronic bad posture can cause respiratory problems. I wonder if she’s hanging herself on a cross of skeletal imbalance. A chiropractor would have a field day with her.

Of course I don’t mean to sound critical. It’s not like I’m perfect. I’m so phobic about commitment that I not only didn’t marry my son’s father; I’ve never been able to bring myself to own real estate. I even lease my car. But I have good posture. My father saw to that. And I taught David to align his spine, use his stride, carry his own weight. So he stands up straight but he’s on an obsessive quest for a mate. It’s not like I could guard all fronts.

David broke his wrist when he was ten, so I knew a bit about the limitations. And I once sprained mine badly enough to require a brace. I’ll never forget what a challenge shoe laces were, and how long it took to get into my jeans. One of my funniest memories from then was of my boyfriend trying to help me with the jeans; he pulled straight up and hoisted me into the air by the denim. That’s when I realized we girls wriggle into our pants for a reason.

I remembered that the first time I saw Jessie help her mother into jeans. I had just arrived at Evie’s house to run errands and get her to the doctor. I had a key then because I was coming by so often. I let myself in and there was Jessie trying the same upward move my boyfriend had used. She must have yanked Evie a foot off the ground. Jessie grunted at the same time that Evie yelped. “Hey. Easy,” advised Evie. “Jeez, Ma. I’m just trying to help. You’re never happy with me.” Our eyes met as she set her mother down, and Jessie looked sullen to me. But she had low thick brows and no one was plucking them, so she would have appeared to glower no matter what. And I only saw her face for a second; then she left for school.