My stepbrother has a severe dairy allergy. My stepsister? Shellfish and seafood. They were diagnosed right around the time my mom met my stepdad. I was seven when we all moved in together, and the house instantly became totally allergen-free. Every crumb, every ingredient, meticulously checked. I didn’t mind at first. I was just a kid. But then, slowly, I realized how incredibly strict it all was. It wasn’t just at home. My parents found this one restaurant – no nuts, no shellfish, no dairy, nothing potentially cross-contaminated – and decided that was it. We’d never eat anywhere else, ever again. No takeout. No other restaurants. Just this one.
I HATE the food there. It all tastes weird, bland, like a sad approximation of real food. But we’ve had every single birthday dinner there for years. Every single one.
Every time I’d ask, plead, if we could just pick a different place for my birthday, just once, my mom would cut me down. “Some families can’t afford any dinner out at all,” she’d say, her voice tight with disapproval, “but sure, let’s all bend over backwards because princess doesn’t like the menu.” The words stung every single time. It felt like she resented me for even asking.
This year was my sweet 16. A milestone. And still, they booked the same place. I was so upset, tears blurring my vision as we drove there. My best friend, bless her heart, came too. She saw how miserable I was.
While we were waiting for the awful, weird-tasting food, she discreetly pulled a tiny, foil-wrapped parcel from her bag. She whispered, “A little something to make you feel better. My mom made them, they’re your favorite.” Inside, a few small, perfectly cooked shrimp. My favorite. My heart ached with gratitude, and a thrilling, rebellious terror. This was so wrong, so dangerous, but I took one, just one.
I was trying to stay calm, trying to eat it quickly without anyone noticing, trying desperately not to upset my parents or draw attention to myself. My stepsister, who had been chatting animatedly with my stepdad, suddenly went quiet. Her head slowly turned. Her eyes, usually so bright, narrowed on my hand, then on the tiny piece of shrimp I was about to pop into my mouth.
My blood ran cold. Oh god, this is it. I’m going to get in so much trouble. My friend, too. She’s going to have a reaction, or yell, or tell everyone. I braced myself for the explosion, the panic, the lecture about selfishness.
But my stepsister didn’t scream. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look angry. She just looked… thoughtful. And then, she took a step closer, her voice quiet, almost conspiratorial, but sharp enough to slice through the muted restaurant chatter like a knife.
“Wow,” she said, her gaze fixed on the shrimp in my fingers. “You’re really brave to eat that. Mom always told me the house went completely allergen-free because of your allergy. The one you had before we even moved in, when you were little. She said it was so bad, you almost… didn’t make it once. But it was a secret. Is that what you were really allergic to? Shellfish? Because you used to get really, really sick from it.”
My hand froze. The shrimp dropped to the table with a tiny, sickening tap. My vision swam. All these years. The bland food. The hated restaurant. My mom’s cutting remarks about the “princess” who always complained…
IT WAS FOR ME. ALL OF IT. I WAS THE PRINCESS. I WAS THE LIE. I FELT A HOLE TEAR OPEN IN MY CHEST. I HAD NEVER, EVER KNOWN.
