Mom kept a safe pantry shelf stocked for me. Dad learned to cook without improvising. Kate stopped making jokes about my “food drama” and started calling it what it was: my medical condition.
Mike became the loudest voice in my defense, which sometimes made me uncomfortable, but I understood why he did it. He was making up for years of silence.
One weekend, Kate invited me to meet her wedding planner. The word wedding made my stomach tighten out of habit. Kate noticed immediately and softened her voice.
“It’s not like… that,” she said quickly. “I’m not asking you to do anything. I just want you involved.”
We met at a coffee shop, and the planner, a woman with a bright smile, launched into catering ideas.
“Seafood station,” she said cheerfully. “Cheese boards. Mixed nut favors—”
Kate’s smile froze.
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself.
Kate cleared her throat. “Actually, we need to talk about severe allergies,” she said, voice firm. “My sister can’t be around shellfish or nuts. Cross-contamination is a risk.”
The planner blinked. “Oh! Okay. We can… we can do an allergy-friendly menu.”