For nine years, I lived under strict “allergy rules” after my mom married Arnold, who claimed his kids, Joselyn and Brandon, had life-threatening allergies. Overnight, all my favorite foods vanished — no pizza, no peanut butter, no ice cream. Every birthday, I sat at the same dull allergen-free café, eating meals that tasted like cardboard, while my wishes were brushed aside. “We’re a family, Cindy,” Mom would say whenever I begged for something different. But deep down, I knew my needs never came first.

By my 16th birthday, my best friend Maya decided enough was enough. She secretly brought me shrimp — my favorite food before Arnold banned it. I was terrified someone would notice, but when Joselyn slipped away with the container, I thought we’d narrowly avoided disaster. Minutes later, we found her behind the restaurant, devouring the shrimp. No allergic reaction. No panic. Just her casually confessing, “Dad, I’m tired of pretending. We’re not allergic. You take me out for seafood every Saturday.”

Arnold’s face turned pale as the truth unraveled. For years, he had fabricated his kids’ allergies so they would get special attention — at the cost of my childhood. I looked at Mom, desperate for her to finally stand up for me. But she just cried, whispering, “I didn’t know.” My heart shattered. “You chose him over me every time,” I told her. “You let me suffer because you wouldn’t question him.”

Three weeks later, Mom filed for divorce, and Arnold moved out with his kids. Suddenly, I could eat whatever I wanted — pizza, ice cream, anything. But the damage was done. “I can’t forgive you for caring more about a man than about me,” I told my mom. Next year, I’m leaving for college in another state, ready to build a life where my choices — and my happiness — finally matter.