Kate caught my eye and gave me a small nod, like she was saying, I remember. I’m not letting them forget.
The dinner began smoothly. The food was simple: roasted chicken, vegetables, rice, salad with dressing on the side. No nuts. No dairy. No shellfish. The staff moved with care.
I ate, and my shoulders loosened as the minutes passed without symptoms.
Then an uncle I barely knew walked in late carrying a big foil tray.
“Brought my famous shrimp dip!” he announced, grinning like he’d saved the day.
The room froze.
My throat tightened, not from reaction yet, but from fear.
Kate stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly. “No,” she said, voice sharp.
Uncle Shrimp Dip blinked. “What?”
“You can’t bring that in here,” Kate said, and there was no hesitation in her tone. “My sister has life-threatening allergies.”
He laughed like she was exaggerating. “Oh come on. It’s shrimp dip. It’s for everyone.”
Mom stepped forward. “Take it out,” she said firmly.
The uncle frowned. “I drove an hour—”
“And Olivia almost died,” Mom snapped, and the room went dead silent. “So take it out.”
He looked around, maybe expecting support, but found none. Mike was already opening the door.
“I’ll walk it to your car,” Mike said, voice controlled and cold. “Now.”
The uncle’s face reddened. He mumbled something under his breath and followed Mike out.
My hands trembled under the table. Sam reached over and squeezed my fingers once. Grounding. Steady.
Kate sat back down, breathing hard. She glanced at me, eyes wet. “Are you okay?”
I swallowed carefully. “I’m okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
Kate nodded, blinking fast. “I’m not letting anyone do that,” she whispered. “Not to you.”
The rest of the dinner resumed, but the mood had shifted. People spoke softer. Several relatives came over to apologize awkwardly, as if they’d just realized food could be dangerous.
One cousin said, “I didn’t know it was that serious.”
I wanted to say, I’ve been telling you, but I didn’t. I just said, “It is.”
After dinner, as we stood outside under string lights, Dad handed me a small bag.
“What’s this?” I asked.
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.