The worst part was they were right about one thing: I hadn’t always been like this. The reactions started when I was sixteen, like someone flipped a switch. At first it was shellfish. Then dairy. Then nuts. Then a list so long I started writing it down just to keep track.
The more the list grew, the more my family decided it had to be my fault.
Mom sighed like I was ruining her life. “Fine. I suppose you want your special plain chicken and rice again, like a child.”
Before I could answer, Kate jumped in, eager. “She’s doing it for attention. Remember last month when she claimed she was allergic to the birthday cake at my engagement party?”
I remembered. I also remembered lying in the bathroom that night sweating and shaking, trying not to make noise so nobody would accuse me of performing.
Dad reached across the table and put a small portion of pasta on my plate.
“Just try a bite, princess,” he said, like he was being kind. “This picky eating has gone on long enough.”
My heart started racing. The smell alone made my throat feel smaller. I could already feel the beginnings of that pressure behind my sternum, the warning flare my body sent out.