The first bite tasted rich, buttery, almost innocent—until my throat started tightening. Across the table, my mother-in-law watched me struggle to breathe with the calm smile of someone waiting for a trap to spring shut.

And because she adored an audience.

I had warned her twice that week.

No seafood. Severe allergy. Not preference. Not exaggeration. Documented medical condition.

Margaret had pressed a hand dramatically against her chest and replied, “Of course, darling. I would never risk my grandchild.”

Now agony ripped through my stomach like a knife.

“There’s shrimp,” I choked out. “There’s shrimp in this.”

Margaret lifted her brows innocently. “Shrimp? In roasted chicken?”

A few guests laughed awkwardly.

Daniel rose halfway from his chair, his face red with emb:arrassment. “Claire, Mom organized this entire dinner for us. Don’t accuse her just because you’re uncomfortable with attention being on me for once.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“I can’t breathe,” I whispered.

His eyes darted toward the guests before returning to me. “You said the same thing at Mom’s birthday dinner when she served crab cakes.”

“Because they were crab cakes.”