“What’s wrong now?” my mother snapped, already impatient. “You’re not going to eat?”
“I’m… not hungry,” I murmured.
She sighed and waved a hand. “Always the difficult one. Can’t you at least appreciate your sister’s effort?”
Patricia tilted her head. “It’s okay, really. She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.”
“She should,” Denver cut in smoothly. “Patricia went through the trouble. Don’t be rude, Alicia. It’s not always about you.”
Not always about me?
I bit my lip. Hard. They didn’t know. Or maybe they did and simply forgot.
I was allergic to shrimp. I had been hospitalized for it once. A full-blown anaphylactic shock. But no one remembered. No one asked.
Not even Denver. Not even my own mother because even if I said no, they forced me to eat, just for Patricia.
“Fine,” I said, swallowing my pride—and spoonful of pasta.
It only took seconds.
My throat began to tighten. My chest felt like it was caving in. I couldn’t breathe.
I clutched the table edge, gasping.
“What now?” Paula snapped. “Is the food not good enough for you?”
“She’s doing this on purpose,” Denver muttered, sipping his wine. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve just said so, Alicia.”
I tried to speak, but no sound came out.
My vision blurred. Spots danced in the corners of my eyes. I was drowning in air.
Then—darkness.
The antiseptic scent of the hospital room was the first thing I registered.
Then the beep. Soft and steady, like it was reminding me that I was still alive.
I blinked, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here—until the taste of shrimp returned to my mouth like a cruel joke, and everything came rushing back. The dinner table. Their laughter. My body betraying me.
I sighed, turning my head slowly toward the window. The sunlight was soft, golden.
I was alone. I sat up, ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand. I reached for my phone, the screen lighting up with unread notifications. None from Denver. None from Patricia. None from my mother or father.
I then opened my social media. And there it was.
A photo from Patricia’s story, now gone from her feed but still fresh in my memory. Them at an art auction—laughing. My parents beside them. Denver standing behind Patricia, his hand resting casually on her lower back.
The caption read: “Celebrating life with those who matter.”