It was on the wall of her bedroom, five feet tall. The lithest legs and daintiest waist, one like I have never had and especially now, could not. He had painted her posed with a slight bend, making her look like a backwards seven.

“How did you get the sparkle on her wings?” I ask.

“Spray glitter.”

“Won’t that flake off? What if she finds it on the floor and eats it?”

“Our kid is not going to be a cigarette butt eating retard,” he spits, arms crossed.

“Just asking…” I trail off, my hands lost. Unable to cross my arms effectively, I put my hands on my hips, so far apart now.

The crib is situated just below and to the right, perfectly positioned underneath the protective gaze of the fairy, the wand raised and ready over the place she will sleep every night.

He wanted her to feel safe, I guess.

“But why does it have to have my face?” I ask.

He uncrosses his arms and his voice darkens, raises. “What other fucking face do you want on it Gina? For Christ’s sake!”

I wince, staring at my fairy-self. The juxtaposition of the delicate beauty that are fairies with my face so plain and human reduces the mural to mockery. Part of me wonders if this was his intention.

I don’t answer him. I know if I say anything more, he’ll threaten to paint over it entirely; maybe with the lavender and pink theme I had fought for and lost. I know that if that happens, I’ll still see the fairy underneath the paint. And I know he will too. He’s not one to let others forget.

It’s fine,” I say. “It’s fine.”

I twine my fingers together over my belly; there is a kick and a roll.

It’s fine, I think.

I hope.

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