He looked embarrassed. “Extra EpiPen set. Just in case. And a copy of your emergency plan. I laminated it.”
I stared at him, and something in my chest cracked open.
“Dad,” I said softly.
He swallowed. “I know I can’t undo the past,” he said. “But I can stop being part of the danger.”
I nodded slowly. “That matters,” I said.
The next day, the wedding ceremony was held outdoors in a garden. The air smelled like flowers and late summer warmth. I sat in the front row, feeling the sun on my shoulders, and watched Kate walk down the aisle.
She looked beautiful, not in a magazine way, but in a human way. Nervous and glowing. Real.
When she reached the front, she glanced at me, and for a second her face softened like she was remembering everything we’d survived to get here.
The reception was safe. The dessert table had allergy-friendly labels. The kitchen followed protocols. No surprises.
And when people tried to make jokes about “allergy drama,” Mike shut them down. When a relative tried to sneak in outside candy favors, Mom intercepted it like a seasoned guard.
For once, I wasn’t fighting my family to stay alive.
They were fighting with me.