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.