My mom pushed the plate toward me like she could shove the problem into my mouth and make it disappear. Shrimp pasta. Creamy sauce. The smell hit the back of my throat and my body reacted before my brain could argue with it.
That familiar tightness crept in, like someone was slowly drawing a string around my windpipe.
Everyone else at the table looked perfectly comfortable. My dad twirled noodles with the confidence of a man who had never had to fear dinner in his entire life. My sister Lena leaned back in her chair wearing the tired expression she always used when my health became the topic of conversation again. My younger brother Miles sat quietly at the far end of the table, watching the situation with the uneasy look of someone hoping the tension would pass quickly.
I was twenty four years old, yet I felt like a child sitting under a microscope while my family waited to see if I would behave correctly.
“Mom, please,” I said carefully while sliding the plate away with cautious fingertips. “You know seafood makes me sick and I cannot eat that.”