Chapter 1: Candles, Strangers, and Shrimp

I was still picking blue wax off my birthday cupcake when the front door banged open. The sugar on my tongue hadn’t even melted yet. Dad stood in the doorway, grinning, and beside him was a woman I’d never seen before—her perfume hit me first, sweet and floral, like those tiny bottles at church. Her blouse was crisp, her hair perfect, but her smile looked like it might crack if I stared too long.

Next to her, a girl about my age tugged at her sleeve, sneakers scuffing the tile. She kept glancing up the hallway, then finally looked at me. Her eyes darted away almost instantly.

She gave me a shaky smile and said, “Hi… I guess we’re sisters now?”

My mouth went dry. My hands fidgeted with the hem of my shirt, and I wanted to bolt—back upstairs, outside, anywhere but that foyer. My heart pounded so hard I wondered if they could hear it. The air felt thick, heavy with something I couldn’t name.

Natalie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You must be Allison. Just like Mark described—so likable.” Her voice was gentle, soft as a quilt, and for a second, I thought maybe she meant it. Dad shot her a look—grateful, almost relieved. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled like that at anyone.

A couple weeks after the anniversary of my mom’s death, Natalie and her daughter, Lillian, moved into our house in Maple Heights. The move happened fast. Boxes towered in the living room, the smell of fresh paint and someone else’s shampoo creeping into the bathroom. I was scared. One night, I asked Dad, “Will you still love me?”

He squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles like he did when I was little and thunder shook the windows. “Of course, kiddo.”

I pressed, “Will you forget Mom?”

He went quiet for a long time, then sighed. “How could I ever forget her? But Allison, I really care about Natalie. Can you try to understand me? And Lillian—just think of her like another seat at the table, kiddo. You’re still my girl.”

He said it like a promise. I just squeezed his hand tighter, wishing he’d say it again, but knowing he wouldn’t.

A year after Dad married Natalie, everything shifted. Suddenly he was buying Lillian new clothes at Target, never missing her birthday, telling everyone at church how he had another thoughtful daughter. Kindness for kindness.

The day Lillian called him “Dad,” he grinned like a kid, piled his plate high with mac and cheese, and looked at me with hope in his eyes—like he wanted something I couldn’t give.

I looked away, refused the fork Natalie handed me, and said, “Thanks, Aunt Natalie, but I’m used to eating with a spoon.”

Her smile slipped for a second, but she forced it back, placing a shrimp on my plate—trying, but missing the mark.

I used the serving spoon to scrape the shrimp off, even picking out rice that touched the sauce. The metal clinked loudly against my plate.

Natalie’s hand tightened around her napkin, her eyes flicking to Dad.

He slammed his fork down, face tight. “Allison, c’mon! That’s not how we act at the table. You know better.”

The silverware rattled, the whole room freezing. Dinner ended with a sour silence.

Later, Dad told me he didn’t mean to snap, but then he blamed me for embarrassing Natalie. “Your Aunt Natalie treats you well, doesn’t she? Lillian calls me Dad, but you still call her Aunt Natalie. Don’t you think that makes her feel left out?”

I answered, “I haven’t thought about it. I can handle you remarrying, but I can’t call anyone else ‘Mom.’ And, like Mom, I’m allergic to shrimp.”

He just stared, stunned. Then he muttered, “Your Aunt Natalie didn’t know either,” and left the room.

In the kitchen, the smell of shrimp and butter clung to the air, long after I’d scraped my plate clean. I remembered how Mom’s allergy was something Dad never forgot—and now, it was like neither of us existed.