Kate came once, hovering in the doorway like she wasn’t sure she deserved to enter. She had mascara smudges under her eyes and a stack of pamphlets in her arms.
“I read everything,” she said quickly, as if reading could undo years. “I watched videos on how to use an EpiPen. I… I didn’t know it could be like this.”
“You didn’t want to know,” I said again, softer this time. “There’s a difference.”
Kate nodded, tears spilling. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t say I forgave her. I didn’t say I didn’t. I just said, “I need time.”
My parents came with guilt hanging off them like heavy coats. Mom brought a notebook filled with scribbled questions. Dad brought a bag with my phone charger and clean clothes, like he was trying to be useful without saying too much.
They sat down cautiously, like sudden movement might break me.
Mom’s voice was hoarse. “The doctor talked to us again. About… cross-contamination. About hidden ingredients.”
Dad stared at his hands. “I didn’t understand,” he said. “I thought—”
“You thought I was being difficult,” I finished.
He flinched. “Yes.”