I Hope This Blackmail Finds You Well.

PrologueWhile I am just trying to figure out why I was even here. Next to me, some sleepy girl decided my shoulder was a free pillow and just went for it. Did she just fall asleep on me?

Whatever. We girls don't mind these things—random touches, shared comfort. But that old man over there... Why is he staring at me like that? That's a visual harassment.

Thought he looked creepy but at least I knew he was not looking at me with disgust. If anything, he looks... impressed. Yeah, because old men are the only ones who think fat women are beautiful. That's just a fact. To them, I'm not "overweight"—I'm classic. A full-figured woman, like in the good old days.

All old men... except for one. The one calling me over—my father. To him, I'm not classic. I'm just a problem. Extra weight that needs to go away, whether through exercise or, ideally, by shipping me off to another country with a goodbye note: "Go find your future somewhere else."

His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Come on, did I bring you to the museum just for you to sit there like a statue?"

A statue? My father quickly blended into the museum's vibe.

I get up and stand next to him in front of The Last Supper. He's saying something about art, symbolism, whatever—but I'm not really listening.

I'm thinking about something more important...

I didn't even want to come here. I'm bored out of my mind. And boredom makes me hungry. I want pizza. Or a burger. Or maybe a huge slice of chocolate cake...

God, I wish I could think about something else.

I look at the painting, at the perfectly arranged table, and sigh. Somewhere between hunger and pure frustration, I said to myself:

"Tonight will be my final supper."

Chapter 01:

I'm at the supermarket, holding a basket full of vegetables, and fat-free milk—I have no idea what that even tastes like—beans, lettuce, and everything that's supposed to be "diet-friendly." I look down at the basket, then lift my head and glance around.

I can't believe I'm buying this.

I have no idea where to even start, but I always see people on the internet shopping like this when they decide to go on a diet. So... I guess this is what I'm supposed to do.

The line in front of me is ridiculously long. Am I going to have to wait like this every time? Is my life going to be a never-ending cycle of standing in checkout lines, carrying bags full of green things? God, I'm already bored, and I haven't even started yet.

My phone rings. Mom.

— Yeah, I'm at the supermarket.

— Good, I just wanted to tell you that you have to be home before lunch.

— Okay.

— Where's your dad?

— After we left the museum, he dropped me off at the supermarket, and then... I have no idea where he went.

— Alright, since you're there, get me a bottle of Coke.

I sigh and start walking through the aisles, Surrounded by food. Food to crave, food to want, food that can't even be touched. The thought of always being near things forbidden—terrifying

I get home, push the door open, drop the bags on the table, then turn to my mom.

— Mom, seriously? Lasagna?

— And? It's your favorite dish, isn't it? You should be thrilled!

— Not on my first day.

She bursts into laughter as if I just told the greatest joke of all time.

— First day of what?

— A diet!

— No way, I don't believe it.

— Well, get ready, Mom, because you're about to see a lot of things you won't believe.

And now that I've said it out loud, I feel like I've already signed a contract or something. I have to be responsible now.

— I'll be in my room... looking up what I can make for lunch with these vegetables.

Let's see... hmm... Pinterest first. They say the eyes eat before the mouth, so if I'm going to do this, I might as well pick food that looks nice. Ah, here we go! Quin... Quinn... Quinoa? What even is that? But okay, I like the color contrast—sweet potatoes, rice, lettuce... nope, no chicken. Just veggies.

— Hello? Dad? Please bring some... quinoa before you come home.

Right at that moment, my mom walked into my room without knocking—like always. And why would she? My mom was born before privacy was even a thing.

— Your aunt is coming over in a few minutes. She just called.

Noooooo. Oh God. She's coming. And she's bringing the biggest bully in history. My aunt doesn't go anywhere without her tiny dog.

— Mom, I'm locking my door and pretending I'm not home, deal?

— Oh, so this is how I raised you? Get up, fix yourself, or I'll smack you on the head.

Why does she even bother? My mom has never experienced bullying before. She doesn't know how painful it is. A woman in her forties, three kids, pregnancies, breastfeeding, eats whatever she wants, and still manages to stay in shape. She looks stunning in jeans and tight dresses. Meanwhile, I make oversized clothes look tight.

People sometimes stare at us when we're out together. I mean, it's obvious from the resemblance that we're mother and daughter, but with the body difference... I look like a failed clone of her.

Stirring the quinoa in the pot. "Brian must not find out about this diet!" No space for mockery today, no patience for the usual teasing.

A calm seat at the table, every movement measured, as if nothing had changed. But the real problem? A steaming hot plate of lasagna sat right there, oozing with melted cheese... Why does betrayal always taste so good?

The plan was simple—eat slowly, painfully slowly... Perhaps nibbling like an insect tasting food for the first time would go unnoticed. But, of course, Brian was there. unluckily at my first day.

He stopped talking with the rest of the family, looked at me with that mischievous gaze, and said in a voice dripping with sarcasm:

"Why are you eating so slowly? You look like a turtle wrestling with a tomato!"

I froze mid-bite, glared at him, and tried to ignore him... but no, I couldn't. Anger bubbled up inside me, and before I knew it, I slammed my spoon down on the table and declared dramatically:

"For your information, I've decided to go on a diet! And actually? I'm NOT eating lasagna!"

With great confidence, I stood up, marched to the kitchen, and returned with the dish I had been cooking. I placed it in front of me with a theatrical flourish and sat up straight. But, of course, my family wouldn't just let me be.

My aunt gave me a puzzled look before asking, in her usual nosy tone:

"Why haven't you seen a specialist? Who gave you this meal plan?"

Then Brian, the evil one, chimed in, "Vegetables and rice and... whatever this is?"

I raised an eyebrow proudly and replied with fake confidence:

"I read an old book of my mom's and found incredible success stories of people who lost huge amounts of weight just by eating carrots and cabbage!"

The entire family stared at me as if I had just announced I was planning to survive on moonlight alone. Then my dad cleared his throat and, with the widest smile—said:

"If you're serious about this, let me take you to a proper nutritionist."

And then my mom added, "Your dish is missing some meat. Or at least an egg."

I could feel their excitement... My dad had always wanted me to do this, but I was never ready before. I glanced at my quinoa plate, then at their faces... and then at Brian, who was looking at me with an expression that said:

"I bet you won't last a week."

The challenge had begun, and I wasn't going to lose easily... probably.

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