My birthday dinner was perfect until the restaurant doors slammed open. My stepmom stormed in and publicly accused me of “betraying the family” for not catering to her and my stepbrother’s restrictive food rules. Before I could say a word, someone else rose to my defense.
I’d been biting my tongue for seven years, ever since my dad married Kathleen.
She arrived like a walking whirlwind when I was 15. I never met her daughter (she lives on the other side of the country), but her son, Benjamin, I got to know all too well.
He’s allergic to peanuts and shellfish, which is fine. I get it. Allergies are serious business, and I’d never want to put anyone at risk.
But here’s where things get ridiculous.
His diet when I lived at home consisted of pizza (cheese or beef only), fries, beef burgers, and beef and cheese tacos. Even his sweet tooth had no variety: he ate ice cream and chocolate. That was it.
Which I honestly wouldn’t have cared about in the slightest if he and Kathleen hadn’t turned every meal into a performance.
Suggest a nice Italian place, and Benjamin would shove his chair back with a sigh loud enough for the whole room.
“I’ll just stay home,” he’d mutter, “since that place refused to make me a pizza without sauce last time.”
Kathleen would clutch his shoulder like he was a Victorian child wasting away, and suddenly the entire evening revolved around their discomfort.
But Kathleen was worse. So much worse.
Kathleen had her own list of foods she wouldn’t eat, like rice, pasta, bread, potatoes, or fish. Half of the food pyramid was apparently a personal insult to her existence.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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