For nine years, every single meal was a battle. Not with me, but with my own stomach, my own taste buds. From the age of seven, when my dad remarried, my life became a bland, beige landscape of food.
It wasn’t just about taste. It was about them. My new stepsiblings. They had a long list of allergies. Dairy. Gluten. Nuts. Eggs. Shellfish. Soy. It felt endless. And because of it, our entire household menu was purged. Every. Single. Meal. Tailored. For. Them.
I tried to be understanding. My dad told me, ‘It’s important we all eat the same food, darling. It makes us a family. It keeps everyone safe.’ Safe. That word echoed in my mind for years, a justification for endless plates of boiled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and rice cakes. No cheese. No pasta. No chocolate. No birthday cakes with frosting. No school lunch swaps, no spontaneous takeout.
Holidays were the worst. While other kids gorged on pizza at sleepovers, I’d bring my own pre-approved, allergy-safe meal. At family gatherings, while cousins ate mashed potatoes drowning in butter and cream, I’d have a small, dry portion, reminded constantly of the ‘dangers’ lurking in every delicious bite. I learned to hate the smell of good food because I knew it wasn’t for me.
My stepsiblings, particularly the younger one, were vigilant. ‘That has dairy! That has gluten!’ their small voices would pipe up, even if it was just a tiny crumb, or if I dared to open a bag of chips that might have ‘trace amounts’ of something. My stepmom would sigh, a martyr’s sigh, and then reiterate the rules. ‘We all eat together. We all eat safe.’
A woman standing on a porch | Source: Midjourney
I felt like an outsider in my own home. My tastes, my desires, my very childhood joy of food, were sacrificed on the altar of their supposed health. I grew up believing I was doing something noble, something necessary. I was keeping my new family safe. I was being a good, accepting, selfless child. And deep down, I resented every single bite. Every bland, flavorless, joyless bite.
My 16th birthday. Sixteen. A milestone. I’d been dreaming of it for months, maybe years. I pictured a dinner out, a real meal. Pizza. A burger. Something I chose. Something I actually liked. My stepmom, in a rare moment, had promised something special. ‘For your big day, sweetie,’ she’d cooed, ‘we’re going to do something just for you.’ A glimmer of hope. A tiny, foolish spark of anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, for one night, the rules would bend.
The day arrived. My stomach fluttered with a mix of excitement and apprehension. Dinner time. We gathered around the table. My heart hammered. And there it was. Not the pizza. Not the burger. But a large, steaming, perfectly cooked, DEEP-FRIED SOUTHERN CHICKEN. Golden brown. Crispy. With what looked suspiciously like a creamy, cheesy macaroni and cheese on the side. And a giant chocolate cake with real, full-fat buttercream frosting.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I stared. It was everything I hadn’t been allowed for NINE YEARS. Every single ‘allergy’ food on display, audacious and delicious. My stepsiblings, usually so quick to point out even the hint of an ‘unsafe’ ingredient, were quiet. Too quiet. My stepmom smiled, a little too wide. My dad looked… uncomfortable. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Then it happened. My younger stepsibling, usually the most vocal about their ‘allergies,’ leaned over, their eyes darting to my stepmom’s back. ‘Psst,’ they whispered, a conspiratorial glint in their eyes, ‘Don’t worry, they aren’t home tonight. We can eat this.’
My blood ran cold. They?
My other, older stepsibling wasn’t home. Only one of them.
The exterior of a mansion | Source: Midjourney
A thought, a terrifying, earth-shattering thought, pierced through me. My stepmom had only ever mentioned one of them having severe allergies. The other one, the older one, had a milder sensitivity, mostly just dairy. NOT the long, deadly list that dictated our lives.
My eyes snapped to my stepmom. Her smile faltered. My dad cleared his throat, suddenly finding the pattern on the tablecloth fascinating.
I opened my mouth, the words catching in my throat. ‘Wait,’ I choked out. ‘Are… are you saying…?’
My stepsibling, oblivious, piped up, a little louder this time. ‘Yeah, Mom just always makes us eat like this when [older stepsibling] is here because [older stepsibling] is really particular about food texture and doesn’t like things mixed. It’s just easier.’
My world imploded.
It wasn’t allergies.
IT WASN’T ALLERGIES.
The long list. The bland food. The nine years of sacrifice. It was never about deadly allergies. It was about ONE PERSON’S FOOD PREFERENCES and my stepmom’s ‘easier’ way of managing meal times by punishing everyone else. My other stepsibling, the one who wasn’t home, just didn’t like “mixed textures” and certain flavors. And the stepmom had fabricated a whole, elaborate allergy narrative to control the kitchen, to simplify her life, and to ensure my dad (and by extension, me) conformed.
I looked at my dad. His face was a mask of guilt. He had known. He had let me believe I was keeping my stepsiblings safe from death, when I was just catering to a pickiness.
My vision blurred. Nine years. Nine years of feeling like an outsider, of hating every meal, of being told it was for ‘family safety,’ of sacrificing my own joy. For a lie. My dad. My stepmom. They had let me believe it. They had encouraged it.
The rich smell of the fried chicken, the cheesy macaroni, the decadent chocolate cake, suddenly turned my stomach. It wasn’t a celebration. It was a monument to their deception. And to my incredible, gullible pain.
I stood up, pushing my chair back with a scrape that echoed in the sudden silence. My voice was a whisper, then it grew. ‘You… you let me…’ I couldn’t even form the words.
My stepmom tried to offer a placating smile. ‘Sweetie, it was just easier. You know how [older stepsibling] is about food.’
EASIER? My stomach clenched. My throat burned.
NINE YEARS OF MY LIFE. NINE YEARS OF BLAND, UNWANTED FOOD. NINE YEARS OF FEELING LIKE A BURDEN.
All because it was EASIER for her.
A teenage boy standing in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
And my dad, my own father, had let it happen. He had watched me eat food I hated, had seen me miss out, had heard me quietly complain, and had never said a word. He had been complicit in the lie that shaped my childhood. He had chosen easier over my truth.
I didn’t eat that night. I didn’t eat the food I had craved for years. The taste of it, finally within reach, felt like ash in my mouth. It tasted like betrayal. And my 16th birthday, the day I thought would finally be about me, was the day my entire world, built on a foundation of supposed love and sacrifice, CRUMBLED. I was free of the bland food, but I was suddenly starving for a truth I could never get back.
