Mom added, “We’re in family therapy.” She looked at me, eyes raw. “Learning to be better listeners. To trust when our children tell us something is wrong.”
Mike raised his glass of sparkling cider. “To Olivia,” he said. “For surviving. Not just the allergies.”
Everyone laughed softly, but the truth of it sat in the air.
I raised my glass too. “To safe food,” I said. “And to not turning dinner into a battlefield.”
Afterward, as they helped clean up using the special allergen-free cleaning supplies they’d researched, I watched them with a mix of love and caution. The hypervigilance could feel suffocating, but it was better than dismissal. Better than danger disguised as normal.
As they gathered their things to leave, Mom said, “Next month dinner is at our place.”
I stiffened automatically.
Mom saw it and hurried on. “We installed an air purifier. Bought separate cookware. We’re… we’re trying to make it safe.”
I took a breath and nodded. “Okay,” I said, because growth required chance.
At the door, Dad hesitated. “Olivia,” he said, voice thick. “I’m sorry.”
Not “if I hurt you.” Not “we didn’t know.” Just sorry.
I nodded again. “Thank you.”