Mom and Dad arrived next. Mom clutched a tablet like it was a life raft, full of bookmarked recipes and allergy resources. Dad carried a container labeled SAFE FOR OLIVIA in thick black marker, like he wanted the universe to read it too.
“I made the quinoa salad exactly how the allergist approved,” he said, proud in a tentative way.
Mike arrived last and immediately asked to see every ingredient label like a bouncer at a club.
“Almond extract?” he asked, pointing.
“No,” Kate said quickly. “Vanilla. Checked it twice.”
He nodded and set it down like a man defusing a bomb.
We sat down to eat, and the whole thing felt surreal. Instead of pushing food at me, my family watched anxiously as I took each bite. Mom’s hands hovered near her purse where she’d put the EpiPens “just in case.” Dad flinched every time I cleared my throat.
“It’s okay,” I said, forcing a smile. “You can relax. Everything’s safe.”
“We can’t help it,” Mom whispered. “Every time I think about that night…”
She trailed off, tears filling again.
We ate slowly, like we were learning a new language at the table. One where my body wasn’t a joke or a challenge. One where safety mattered more than tradition.