The light above the stove flickered in that annoying way it always did, a soft buzzing that matched the throb behind my eyes. The smell of buttery toast and scrambled eggs should have been comforting, the kind of ordinary morning smell that meant life was normal.
Instead it felt like a warning.
My stepmom, Deanna, placed a gentle hand on my back, her concerned expression not quite reaching her eyes.
“Maybe you should stay home from school today,” she suggested, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “I’ll make you my special tea. It always helps with stomach aches.”
The thought of drinking anything she prepared made my stomach churn even more.
This had been going on for months. Ever since Deanna moved in after their quick marriage, every meal she prepared left me sick, dizzy, and sometimes even passing out.
It wasn’t always dramatic at first. In the beginning it was subtle—headaches, nausea that came and went, this strange heavy fatigue that made my limbs feel like someone had filled them with wet sand.Deanna had called it “adjustment.” She’d said teenagers get stressed. She’d said grief does weird things. She’d said maybe I was reacting to the “new family dynamic.”
My dad had nodded along because nodding was easier than looking closely.
“No,” I managed, straightening up and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I have a chemistry test today. I can’t miss it.”
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