I remember staring at the tiles and thinking maybe he was right.
That’s how it starts when you’re being taught not to trust yourself. The first lesson is never “you’re in danger.” The first lesson is “you’re overreacting.”
Weeks passed.
I got sick after chili, after pot roast, after baked ziti, after Marianne’s “immune booster” smoothies, after cups of tea she brought me when she said I looked tired. Not every single meal, but enough that eating at home started to feel like rolling dice. At school I was mostly fine. At work, if I grabbed a muffin or a turkey sandwich during break, I might feel a little queasy but never wrecked. At home, my stomach turned into a trapdoor.
By November, I was losing weight.
My jeans hung looser at the waist. My skin looked gray under the bathroom light. I had headaches that made my temples throb and bruises on my thighs and arms I couldn’t explain. I would wake up tired, drag myself to class, come home, force down dinner because my father hated “wasted food,” and spend half the night in the bathroom with cramps so severe they bent me double.
I told Dad at least a dozen times that something was wrong.
He had exactly three responses.
“You need more sleep.”
“You’re anxious because of school.”
“Stop being dramatic.”
That last one became his favorite.
If I stood at the kitchen counter too long because I felt dizzy, he’d sigh and say it. If I didn’t want seconds, he’d say it. If I asked him to take me seriously, his face would harden like I had insulted him personally.
“Do you know what real sick looks like?” he snapped one night when I pushed away a plate of Marianne’s meatloaf. “I worked with a guy who got his hand crushed in a rooftop unit and finished the shift before going to the hospital. You throw up twice and act like the sky is falling.”
“Dad, I’ve been sick for weeks.”
“You’ve been whining for weeks.”
Marianne put a gentle hand on his forearm. “Glenn.”
“No, let her hear it. The world is not going to stop every time her stomach hurts.”
She turned to me with that soft, practiced expression. “Honey, your father just means you need to be stronger.”
I remember thinking that if kindness had a costume, Marianne wore it better than anybody I’d ever met.
December arrived with early snow and Christmas lights blinking across our neighborhood. Other houses smelled like cookies and cinnamon. Ours smelled like bleach, candle wax, and food that made me afraid. Marianne had become oddly controlling about what I ate. She packed leftovers for me before shifts, insisted I take vitamins she left beside my cereal bowl, and got offended whenever I bought something for myself on the way home.
“I made dinner,” she’d say, lips tight. “It’s rude not to eat with the family.”
One night at work, my friend Jess leaned against the espresso machine and looked at me too long.
Jess and I had met in freshman composition. She was blunt, loud, funny, and the kind of loyal that showed up before you even asked. She had copper-red hair she changed every other month, three tiny silver rings in one ear, and zero patience for nonsense.
“You look awful,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I’m serious, Avery. You’re pale.”
“I’m just tired.”
She folded her arms. “You say that every shift.”
“I’ve been having stomach issues.”
“How bad?”
