I spent nine years eating food I hated, thinking I had no choice—until my 16th birthday.
When I was seven, my mom married Arnold, and his two kids, Joselyn (5) and Brandon (3), moved in. Soon, Arnold declared the house must be allergen-free—no nuts, dairy, seafood—because his kids had “serious” allergies. My favorite foods—PB\&J, cheese, fish sticks—were banned.
We only ever ate at Green Garden Café, a bland, allergen-safe restaurant. Year after year, my birthday dinners were at that café, eating food that tasted like cardboard. I couldn’t have friends over, bring snacks, or enjoy birthday cakes. I felt overlooked and caged.
At 13, I researched other safe restaurants—Italian places with allergy-free options—but my mom and Arnold refused. “Discussion is over,” Arnold said.
By 16, I’d resigned myself to another miserable birthday—until my friend Maya secretly gave me shrimp under the table. But Joselyn found it and, in the back alley, confessed she and Brandon weren’t allergic—they’d been lying to get attention. My world shattered.
Arnold admitted he lied to bond the family. Mom, tearful, couldn’t defend me. I realized I’d been silenced and sacrificed. Three weeks later, my mom filed for divorce. Arnold left with his kids—and I never saw them again.