At Our Weekly Sunday Dinner, My Daughter Squeezed My Hand And Whispered
The Sunday Secret
At our weekly Sunday dinner, my daughter squeezed my hand and whispered,
“Mommy, when can I stop taking the love candy?”
I smiled down at her.
“What candy, sweetie? You know we don’t do candy before bed.”
Next to me, my husband Brandon shifted uncomfortably, while my best friend Oilia suddenly became very interested in her wine glass.
“The pink ones from Daddy’s drawer,”
Xi said, her voice getting smaller.
“Auntie Oilia gives them to me after school when you’re not home.”
The Truth Unravels
“I don’t understand,”
I said slowly, my smile fading.
“It’s our secret,”
Xi whispered.
“Daddy says if I tell you I won’t get pretty enough for the pageants, but they make my tummy hurt so bad, Mommy.”
Oilia’s knuckles went white around her purse.
“She’s just confused about her vitamins.”
“What is she talking about, Brandon?”
My voice sliced through the dining room.
“They’re just supplements for energy.”
“Then why is it a secret?”
The pieces started falling into place: the mystery stomach pain, the heart palpitations doctors couldn’t explain, the weight loss that made everyone compliment how healthy she looked while she could barely keep food down.
Evidence of Poison
“Show me these vitamins now.”
“They’re perfectly safe,”
Oilia started.
“Show me!”
Brandon pulled out his phone, but I snatched Oilia’s purse, upending it. Credit card statements scattered across the floor with charges to overseas.
“You’ve been drugging our baby,”
I breathed.
The social worker visits—my voice was rising. They thought I was starving her.
The neighbors called CPS three times because she kept fainting at the bus stop. Brandon’s face went pale.
“That wasn’t supposed to…”
“I lost my nursing license,”
I continued, tears burning my eyes. Ten years of night school while pregnant, fighting my way up to head nurse at Children’s Hospital, gone because I couldn’t explain why my daughter’s blood work showed metabolic damage.
I laughed bitterly. We had to sell my mom’s house, the one she left us, to pay for cardiac specialists for a seven-year-old.
A Family Broken
“Our son won’t even eat meals with us anymore,”
I choked out.
“Oliver told his teacher he’s scared he’ll get sick like Gigi.”
He hoards food in his room because he watched his sister collapse at dinner. He’s five years old, and he hoards food.
Gigi swayed in her chair, her lips tinged blue.
“I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“Daddy said when I’m skinny like Sydney’s daughter, he won’t want to move away.”
The room went dead silent.
“What did you just say, baby?”
“Auntie Oilia promised,”
she sobbed, gripping the table for balance.
“She said when I’m tiny enough, Daddy will love us and won’t leave for Sydney’s family.”
The Motive Revealed
“Sydney?”
Everything clicked. Your CrossFit trainer, the one with the perfect daughters who model.
Brandon’s phone buzzed. He grabbed for it, but I got there first.
A text from Oilia sent thirty seconds ago read:
“She knows. Don’t let her stop now. Dr. Kumar says ten more pounds and she’ll be pageant ready.”
I scrolled up frantically.
“Increased dose this week. She’s down to fifty-two pounds, Brandon. She looks incredible. Sydney will be so jealous.”
My hands shook.
“You’re coordinating this together.”
Oilia stepped forward.
“You don’t understand the pressure he’s under. Sydney’s husband got him that promotion opportunity in Miami. If Xi wins Little Miss Florida, we’d have a reason to…”
A Life Hanging in the Balance
Suddenly, Xi’s eyes rolled back. She crumpled, her tiny body convulsing violently on the dining room floor.
“Gigi!”
I screamed, dropping to my knees. Blood-tinged foam poured from her mouth as her body seized.
“Stay with Mommy, baby. Stay with me.”
The kitchen door burst open. Oliver stood there in his pajamas.
“Is Gigi dying again?”
His voice was flat, empty. My five-year-old had seen this so many times it was routine.
“Call 911!”
I screamed at Brandon, who stood frozen.
“Call them now!”
I turned Xi on her side, timing the seizure like I’d learned to do. The blood was getting darker, almost brown.
