Mom leaned forward, eyes wet. “I keep thinking about all the times you went to your room after dinner. All the times you said you didn’t feel well. And I… I told myself you were sulking.”
I let the silence stretch, because part of me wanted them to sit in it.
“I wasn’t sulking,” I said. “I was trying not to throw up where you could see it.”
Mom covered her mouth and sobbed.
Dad’s voice turned rough. “We failed you.”
It was the first time I’d heard him say it plainly, without excuses. It didn’t erase anything, but it mattered.
Dr. Patel returned that afternoon with a plan: referrals to an allergist and a gastroenterologist, follow-up labs, dietary protocols, and prescriptions for two EpiPens plus antihistamines and emergency instructions.
“When you feel symptoms starting,” she explained, “you don’t wait. You treat. You call for help. You never let anyone talk you into ‘just a bite’ again.”
My parents nodded vigorously like students who’d realized they’d been failing the class.
Kate nodded too, eyes wide.
Mike asked practical questions. “Should we take a course?”