My dad looked like he wanted to argue, then stopped himself. “Okay,” he said quietly. “What do you need?”
The next three weeks were a blur of apartment hunting, allergist appointments, and learning how to live like food was both nourishment and a potential weapon.
The allergist confirmed the diagnosis and expanded the list of triggers with more tests. The nurse showed me how to use an EpiPen with a trainer device until my hands didn’t shake.
“You need two,” she said. “Always. One can fail. One might not be enough.”
I started carrying a small bag everywhere: EpiPens, medical ID card, safe snack bars, a printed emergency plan.
It was exhausting. It was also validating in a way that made me want to scream and cry at the same time.
Kate helped me set up my apartment kitchen like it was a clean-room lab. New cutting boards. New pans. Separate storage containers. Labels on everything. She watched me read ingredient lists like I was decoding a secret language.
“I didn’t realize how much work this is,” she whispered once.
“It’s been my whole life for eight years,” I said.