“I did,” I said, disbelief sharpening my tone. “For years. You told me I was being dramatic. You told me it was all in my head. You forced me to eat foods that made me sick because you didn’t believe me.”
Dad opened his mouth. “We didn’t know—”
“You didn’t want to know,” I cut in, and the truth tasted bitter. “It was easier to blame me than admit something might actually be wrong.”
My voice trembled, and the monitor beeped faster like it was tattling on my emotions.
“Do you know how scary it is,” I continued, “to feel your throat closing while your own family tells you you’re faking it?”
Mike squeezed my hand, a warning to slow down, but I couldn’t stop.
“The doctor said I could have died tonight,” I said. “If Mike hadn’t called 911, I could’ve died at your dinner table while you told me to stop being dramatic.”
That landed. My mom sobbed openly now. Dad looked like someone had drained ten years out of him. Kate stared at the floor.
A nurse poked her head in. “Everything okay? Her heart rate is elevated.”
Mike straightened, protective. “We’re done for now,” he said, looking pointedly at our parents. “She needs rest.”
They filed out slowly, each one looking devastated in a different way.