It was everything you’d expect: string lights, a live country band, catered barbecue, and a massive, multi-tiered cake. I hadn’t wanted to go. I was tired and my joints ached, but Nate had begged me.

He said it would look terrible if I wasn’t in the family photos, and that Brenda had actually done something nice for me for once.

“She ordered a special mini-cake just for you, Clara,” Nate had told me in the car. “Completely soy-free. She called the bakery and everything. See? She’s trying.” I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that the impending arrival of her first grandchild had finally softened her heart.

When it was time for dessert, Brenda made a massive show of it. She grabbed a microphone, thanking everyone for coming, before turning her gaze to me. “And for my lovely daughter-in-law, who has such a sensitive stomach and strict rules, I made sure the baker made a special, safe treat just for her!” she announced, her voice echoing through the barn.

The crowd “awwed,” and Nate squeezed my hand, beaming. A waitress handed me a small, beautifully decorated slice of cake on a ceramic plate. It smelled incredible. I took my fork, scooped up a generous bite of the buttercream and sponge, and swallowed. The reaction wasn’t delayed.

It was violent and instantaneous. Within seconds, the back of my throat started to itch uncontrollably. A wave of heat flushed across my chest and neck, followed by the terrifying, familiar sensation of my airway swelling shut. My pregnant body immediately went into a state of sheer panic.

I dropped the plate. It shattered on the wooden floorboards, but the sound was completely drowned out by the country band launching into their next song.

I grabbed Nate’s arm, my nails digging into his dress shirt. I tried to speak, but only a ragged wheeze came out.

“Help me, Nate,” I choked, my knees buckling as my oxygen supply dwindled. “I can’t breathe.” Nate’s eyes went wide. He knew exactly what was happening. We had practiced this. I pointed frantically to my purse sitting on the chair next to him. He unzipped it and reached inside.

Through my blurring vision, I saw his fingers wrap around the familiar yellow plastic of my EpiPen. A split-second of immense relief washed over me. He was going to stab my thigh. I was going to be okay. But he didn’t move toward me. Instead, I watched Nate look up.

I followed his gaze. Brenda was standing behind the main cake table, completely still, watching us with a cold, calculating stare.