“Mom, please,” I said, keeping my voice low. I slid the plate away with my fingertips like it was a live wire. “You know seafood makes me sick.”
Kate rolled her eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Oh, here we go again. Your mysterious reactions.”
“I’m not making it up,” I said.
“You ate fish sticks all the time when we were kids,” she snapped.
“That was before,” I started, but Dad cut in.
“Enough,” he said, voice sharp. “Your mother spent hours cooking. The least you could do is show some appreciation.”
My cheeks burned. I stared down at my empty plate, trying not to cry because crying would turn into evidence for their favorite argument: Olivia’s dramatic again.
It wasn’t just discomfort. It never had been. Certain foods made my throat tighten, my stomach cramp, my skin flush hot and blotchy, my head spin like I’d been spun in circles. Sometimes I threw up for hours. Sometimes I lay in bed shaking, exhausted and scared, wondering if this would be the time my body finally took it too far.
But my family didn’t see those nights. I’d learned to hide them. It was easier than listening to them laugh about my “food drama.”