It was apparent that no one expected spring to come on so strong, so suddenly. All the signs and “teases” had been there, of course, but when it actually happened, no one was ready. That much was made obvious by how “untoned” and “untamed” their exposed flesh was in their newly revealing clothing. Clothing they thought they wouldn’t have to trot out for at least another couple of weeks.

But no, Spring declared it was here today. Right here, right now. As such, Mr. Soleil would be burning as brightly and hotly as possible. And, accordingly, so would Véronique’s decidedly doughy skin. She really didn’t know how this had happened. How it could happen. Spring creeping up so quickly, that is. But then again, it always did. That was its modus operandi. The same damn story every damn year. And every time, she told herself she wouldn’t let it happen again. Without fail, though, she did. Like so many others, she couldn’t be bothered to “get ready in time.” It required too much work, too much commitment. Of a level she didn’t have the stamina or stomach for. Well, she certainly had a stomach, but that was literal, not metaphorical.

And yet, for every year that she didn’t get it together in time (the “it” being her body), it left the door even further open to her low self-esteem. Already low in general, but even more so when it came to being reminded of what her body truly looked like when the warmer months arrived. The shock of seeing it in so few clothes took at least several weeks to wear off after donning her first pair of shorts and tank top for the season.

Walking down the street in so few clothes, Véronique questioned, almost every five seconds, if those passing by were staring at her in horror—appraising her body and clocking it as obese at worst, and overweight at best. In those moments (near constant) of wondering what others were thinking about her appearance, Véronique wanted to crawl into a hole and die. She didn’t need her therapist (whose last name, incidentally, was Boncorps) to tell her that this intertwined self-consciousness and self-loathing arose during her childhood. And no, it wasn’t her mother (as is usually the case), Irène, that had made her feel perennially bad about her body, but her father, Jean-Paul. An exacting man with extremely high standards, Véronique’s figure was a topic of constant discussion for him. Especially at the dinner table. The only positive Véronique could find in this was that at least she didn’t have to dine with him at breakfast or lunch, when he was—mercifully—at work.

The daylight hours were the only time she was free of his searing commentary. And the more he commented, the more weight she gained. For his so-called good intentions in constantly critiquing her only served to have the opposite effect of what he wanted. Not grasping this at all, his invective against her physique only grew more caustic during her adolescence. Those crucial teenage years when a kind word—particularly from one’s own parents—could have gone such a long way in forming her overall sense of self-worth. But oh no, that was too much to ask of Jean-Paul, whose criticism grew more merciless the closer that Véronique got to being eighteen, therefore liberated from his household. It was like he could taste the fact that he was going to lose his form of “release” when she left, because who would he pick at then? Certainly not Véronique’s younger sister, Annabelle, who was his pride and joy. Indeed, Véronique had always thought that they both liked each other a little too much. And she suspected that Irène felt the same—not that she could ever acknowledge any such feelings or suspicions through the constant haze of alcohol. The thing she loved above all else, including her own family.

In truth, Véronique often wondered why Irène had ever bother to “create” a family at all. She supposed, like most women of that generation, Irène felt obligated to go through the motions of what was expected of her. Or maybe she felt that she ought to just settle on whatever man showed a keen enough interest in her, and Jean-Paul happened to be that person. Irène, after all, wasn’t what one would call a “looker” (which is why Véronique had always felt that she got her genes from her mother’s side). Maybe she knew she needed to just “take what she could get” and not bother with wasting time. Time that would only further diminish her appearance to the opposite sex. Véronique was already starting to understand what she assumed was her mother’s deeply-felt sense of urgency on that front. And this spring had especially brought it out in her. Because not only did her body look plump, but it also had a marked appearance of sagginess and cellulite that she didn’t remember seeing the previous year. Back when she was slightly younger.

After that first unexpected day of spring showed up—granted, well after the official “spring equinox” on March 20th—catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror became a source of unmitigated torture. And, naturally, once she saw just a flash of herself in the outfit she had decided to wear that day, she had to pause and examine herself more closely—more meticulously—in that mirror. Even though she knew it was only reflecting herself back to her, Véronique still grew to hate it. Like it truly was some living, breathing creature with a personal vendetta against her. She was starting to understand how the Evil Queen must have felt looking into her mirror every day and not getting the answer she wanted out of it. Though Véronique was hardly trying to be deemed as “the fairest one of all”—at the most, all she wanted was to not be viewed as “the ugliest one of all.”

Yet that’s precisely how she felt ever since Spring descended upon her, with its cruel, inconsiderate ability to disrobe people without warning. They were all expected to just have their bodies ready for exposure at a moment’s notice. Because, yes, there were some kinder days in spring, when the old vestiges of winter still flickered in, providing cool enough temperatures for those eager to go back to cold-weather attire (e.g., Véronique) to put on their tights. Their jeans, their pants, their leggings, their ponchos, their “light” sweaters, their sweatshirts, their long coats—any garment that was covering, really. Véronique treasured those kinds of days, increasingly precious as Spring began to give way to its even more dastardly brother, Summer. She shuddered to think of how unpleasantly her memory would be jogged when he came to roost, forcing her hand in terms of the sartorial choices (or rather, lack thereof) that were to further burden her mind with thoughts of wanting to die. Or maybe just trying to burn some of her flesh off with a lighter. Besides, it wasn’t as though she didn’t already feel like she was melting anyway. Why not take advantage of her new threshold for that kind of pain by literally burning off some of her fat?

Of course, when Véronique’s body was identified by the last person she would ever want to identify her—Jean-Paul—all he could think to say to the coroner was, “Strange. Even all scorched like that, it still looks like she put on some weight recently.”

It was in that instant that Irène, who was standing with her back to the scene—unable to look—whipped around, went right up to her husband and slapped him with all her might across his left cheek. “This is your fault, Jean-Paul! You who made her this way!”

If Véronique had been alive to witness Irène’s inaugural act of defiance against her husband, she would have given her mother a hug like no other she had ever given. Alas, the time for Irène’s “rebelliousness” was too little, too late. If only it had been there when it mattered most, in those formative years of Véronique’s youth. Or maybe it had been all Spring’s fault, in the end. Making her see herself in a harsh light for one too many seasons.