Chapter 2

The next morning, the smell of pancakes filled the house. My mother stood at the kitchen doorway, her face set in a mask of cheerful denial.

"Ethan, breakfast is ready. Come and eat," she said, as if the night before had never happened. As if she hadn't accused me of selfishness for wanting a future she had helped destroy.

I stayed in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I wasn't hungry. The thought of sitting at that table, pretending everything was normal, made me physically sick.

A few minutes later, my father's heavy footsteps came up the stairs. He appeared in my doorway, his face already turning red with irritation.

"Get out of bed, Ethan," he ordered. "Your mother made breakfast. Stop sulking and get down here. You're ruining the celebratory mood."

"I'm not hungry," I said, my voice flat.

"I don't care if you're hungry. You will come down and sit with your family."

Before I could refuse again, a small, theatrical sniffle came from the kitchen. It was Caleb. Instantly, my parents' attention shifted.

"Caleb, sweetie, what's wrong?" my mother cooed, rushing back to the kitchen.

"It's nothing, Mom," Caleb said, his voice thick with fake emotion. "I just... I feel bad that Ethan's so upset. Maybe I shouldn't have a party."

"Nonsense!" my father declared, his anger at me instantly forgotten and replaced with gushing sympathy for Caleb. "This is your day! Ethan is just being difficult. Don't you worry about him."

I finally dragged myself out of bed and went downstairs. The table was laden with food. A huge stack of pancakes sat in the center. My mother slid a plate in front of my seat. It was piled high with pancakes, covered in syrup and a generous sprinkling of crushed peanuts.

I stared at the plate. I had been allergic to peanuts since I was a child. A severe, life-threatening allergy that had sent me to the ER twice before I was ten.

They had forgotten. Or maybe they had never truly known.

The irony was a bitter pill. Here they were, celebrating Caleb's minor achievement with a feast, and the plate they offered me, their biological son, was literally poison.

A laugh escaped my lips. It was a harsh, ugly sound.

"What's so funny?" Sarah asked, narrowing her eyes at me.

"Nothing," I said, but the dam inside me was cracking. All the years of being pushed aside, of being told to be smaller, quieter, less-it all came rushing to the surface. I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

My voice, when it came out, was a raw shout that echoed in the silent kitchen. "You don't even know, do you? After eighteen years, you have no idea that I'm deathly allergic to peanuts!"

The entire family froze. They stared at me as if I had grown a second head. My mother's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. My father looked confused, then angry. Sarah just looked disgusted.

"Don't be so dramatic, Ethan," my mother stammered, recovering first. "It's just a pancake. If you don't want it, don't eat it."

She didn't get it. She didn't understand that the pancake wasn't the point. The point was the chasm of neglect it represented. The point was that the dog's dietary needs were better remembered in this house than my life-threatening allergy.

"Here," Sarah said, pushing a glass of orange juice towards me, her voice dripping with condescension. "Have some of Caleb's favorite juice. Maybe it'll calm your nerves."

Caleb, of course, drank only a specific, expensive brand of organic juice. The rest of us got the cheap concentrate. It was another small, daily reminder of the hierarchy in this house.

I looked at their blank, uncomprehending faces. My father, ready to yell at me for making a scene. My mother, already fussing over Caleb, asking if my shouting had given him a headache. My sister, looking at me with pure contempt.

There was no point in explaining. It was like shouting into a vacuum. They would never hear me. They would never understand.

I turned away from the table, from the plate of poison they had so cheerfully offered me. I didn't need to argue anymore. I didn't need to justify my pain.

The truth was laid bare in a stack of peanut-dusted pancakes. I was a stranger in my own home.