Parental Pressure
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"Nance?" My mom called from downstairs, "Nancy?"

I leaned just enough to make it out of the door and still obscure the rest of me if she were to walk upstairs, "Yeah mom?"

"Dinner is ready. Come down; I made you a plate."

“Sure you did…” I muttered to myself, “be right there!” I closed the door and walked over to my full-length mirror. I ran my fingers over my leotard, the fabric baggy around my stomach. My fingers were bumping over every rib as I moved upwards. My palms were rough, and they snagged the glittery fabric as each callus ran over it. If anyone could make me a champion, it would be mom.

"Nancy!" She wailed again.
    "Coming!" I shouted back before slipping into a pair of wor...

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