The first time I went out with friends after the hospital, I sat at a restaurant and felt my pulse climb just reading the menu. Words like “may contain” and “prepared in a facility” echoed in my head like sirens.
My friend Jenna noticed. “We can go somewhere else,” she offered immediately.
I blinked at her. “You don’t mind?”
Jenna looked at me like the question was ridiculous. “Why would I mind not killing you?”
The casual seriousness in her tone made my throat tighten with emotion. This was what it was supposed to feel like: concern without accusation.
In family therapy, my parents had to learn that love wasn’t forcing sameness. Love was accommodating reality.
Mom cried when our therapist asked her, “Why did you push Olivia to eat foods she said made her sick?”
Mom’s answer came out in pieces. “Because I thought she was limiting herself. Because I thought if I gave in, she’d become… fragile. Because I was raised to believe kids were dramatic and you had to toughen them up.”
“And what did that belief cost?” the therapist asked softly.
Mom turned toward me, face crumpled. “It almost killed her.”