“When are you due?” a woman at the supermarket checkout asked.  

“Three more months,” I said, rubbing my bump and wincing as if every moment of that time would be torture.  

I was lying. There was no baby. But I couldn’t embarrass her by admitting the truth: that I’d simply eaten too much bread again.  

That’s what I put it down to, anyway. For 20 or so years I lived with what I now know was a wheat allergy, somehow never getting around to investigating the cause of the bloating and the often crippling cramps.  

A few years ago a woman called Sharlene strolled into my life, bringing with her firm ideas on healthy eating and herbal remedies that differed vastly to mine. I balked at her invitations to essential oil evenings and I buried, deep in a junk drawer, the gluten-free recipes she shared. Undeterred, she kept sharing her opinions and knowledge, accepting I didn’t agree but firmly sticking to her beliefs. And then something changed. We got closer. She’s now one of my best friends. Her opinions are no longer so easily dismissed.  

So last April when I decided 20 years was really long enough, I turned to her. I dug through that drawer and found those recipes. I said “Sure, I’ll be there,” when she invited me to another oil night. We shopped for groceries together before a joint camping trip in January. Without knowing it she influenced my food choices; I realised the so-called healthy options I was buying actually weren’t so great.  

Now, thanks to her my kids are healthier. Our grocery bill is down. And I don’t have any more awkward checkout moments.