Chapter 3: Swallowing Silence
The room was golden with celebration, but Jiha felt like she was drowning in a place she no longer belonged. Her father, once a pillar of comfort, was now a shadow beside someone else's smile. The long dining table glittered with polished silverware and too many unfamiliar faces.
And in front of her sat the one thing she couldn't ignore: a delicate, over-decorated dish of seafood pancakes, laced with the very ingredient that made her sick.
"I can't eat this," she said softly, barely above a whisper. "I'm allergic to shellfish."
Her voice trembled with the effort of being heard, of standing up for herself — but it was swallowed by the grandness of the room and the harshness of the response.
Across the table, her stepmother gasped — a practiced, exaggerated reaction. "Allergic? Really, Jiha?" Her expression turned soft for the crowd. "This is what we always had on special occasions. You never said a word before. I even asked the chef to make your portion first. I thought… you'd be happy."
Jiha's chest tightened. "I'm not making it up. I've avoided it since Mom—"
She paused. The word "Mom" hung in the air like a crack in glass.
Her stepmother's smile wavered, then twisted into a faint pout. "It's okay," she said loudly enough for nearby guests to hear. "I suppose if she doesn't want anything I prepare, it's her choice. I tried."
And then, like always, she played the victim so easily.
Her father's face shifted into a tight mask of disappointment. "Jiha," he said firmly, "this behavior isn't appropriate. She's doing her best to welcome you."
"But I'm allergic," Jiha repeated, her voice cracking. "Why does no one believe me?"
"Since when?" he snapped. "You've eaten this before. Stop being ungrateful. People are watching."
Jiha froze. Her hands clenched in her lap. Her cheeks burned. She couldn't even look at him — not when the man who used to hold her hand during storms now pushed her into silence for the sake of appearances.
"Eat," he said again. "Don't embarrass us."
The word "us" cut deeper than any command.
Jiha picked up the fork. Her fingers felt numb. The scent of sesame and shellfish made her stomach turn, but under the weight of everyone's eyes — the pressure to obey, to not ruin her father's image — she took a bite.
It was like swallowing fire. Not because of spice, but because of betrayal.
Her stepmother smiled, satisfied. Her father turned back to the conversation as if nothing had happened. And Jiha sat there, still and silent, the taste of the food burning her throat.
No one noticed her hands trembling under the table.
No one cared that her face had turned pale.
She had followed the rules. Smiled. Obeyed. She had been the "good daughter" they demanded.
But that night, Jiha learned something that would stay with her for years:
Sometimes the deepest scars don't bleed. They settle quietly in the soul — and grow.