You are supposed to protect her

You are supposed to protect her
Michael
Even though Violet had promised it would be a simple family dinner, Richard and I could not help dressing up anyway. I chose a light blue button-down, and Richard wore grey trousers with a matching vest that made him look like he walked out of some magazine spread.
Then Violet stepped out of her bedroom.
The world could have stopped right there.
Her dress was a bright turquoise that brought out the warmth in her skin and the light in her eyes. She looked excited and soft and proud all at once. And that pendant, our pendant, rested against her throat like it belonged there. Seeing her wear it openly, without fear or hesitation, made something in my chest feel damn near unstoppable. As if she was already saying, Yes, I am theirs.
One day, I planned to slide a ring onto her finger, and I wanted the whole fucking world to witness it.
Richard and I walked her downstairs, one on each side of her, almost like she was being presented at some formal event. There was no audience waiting for her, which felt like a tragedy, because she was breathtaking.
But the kitchen made up for it. Evelyn had actually put real effort into the celebration. There were silver balloons floating near the ceiling that spelled out HAPPY BIRTHDAY and BIRTHDAY GIRL. The dining table was set with the good china, plates that normally lived hidden behind glass. A small vase of sunflowers sat in the center, and bright streamers hung along the walls.
On the counter was a rectangular birthday cake with a big, uneven 19 in candles on top and blue icing lettering. Violet would not be able to eat it, but the gesture still mattered.
Evelyn had dressed for the evening too. She wore a navy dress with long sleeves and glittering sequins across the bodice. She looked slightly on-edge as she motioned for us to sit.
“Just a couple more minutes. I am taking the vegetables out now.”
The seating made it so that I sat next to Richard, while Violet and Evelyn took the opposite side, and our father sat at the head of the table like he always did. It was impossible to tell if he had put in effort for the occasion; he lived in shirts and ties. His expression suggested the entire dinner was something he merely tolerated.
“Do you want a hand?” I asked quietly while Evelyn hurried around placing the last of the dishes. There were warm rolls, a salad, and a glass dish full of roasted vegetables beside a steaming platter of pasta.
“No, thank you. I am nearly finished.” Her smile flicked across her face briefly, like it had to be pushed out, and then she began setting plates in front of us, pasta piled high under creamy chicken carbonara.
For Violet, she set down a plate with just the chicken prepared exactly the way Violet could eat it.
The look Violet gave her mother…
God.
That look said more than any speech ever could.
It was the first time I had seen Evelyn acknowledge her daughter’s needs without complaint, without a joke, without minimizing her. It was tiny, ordinary, but it changed everything in Violet’s expression. She looked seen. Cared for. Loved.
My princess deserved that every day.
“Well,” Evelyn said, standing at her chair, hands clasped. A faint shine of perspiration gathered near her hairline, probably from the oven heat and that long-sleeved dress. “Thank you all for sitting together. This feels… really wonderful. And of course, happy birthday, Violet.”
“Thank you, Mom,” Violet replied, her voice warm. “Thank you for doing all of this. It looks amazing.” She lifted her fork as if the meal were the most special thing she had ever been given.
“Alright, everyone, go ahead and start serving yourselves. Do not wait for me,” Evelyn said as she sat down beside Violet.
Seeing them together like that, it struck me again how little they resembled one another. Maybe their coloring was similar, and they both had a delicate build, but Violet must take after her father almost entirely.
Violet cut a small piece of chicken, raised it to her mouth, and her face lit with pleasure. “This is really good,” she said. “Thank you, Mom.”
Evelyn’s smile grew warm and bright. “I am happy you like it.”
Across from me, Richard nudged his bowl of pasta aside without comment and ignored the rolls. He carefully filled his plate with salad, roasted vegetables, and chicken, matching Violet’s restrictions as though it was second nature.
It made a dull ache settle in my chest. He was doing it to support her. And here I was, already mentally eyeing the coconut cake cooling on the counter like a fucking wolf.
I will start being better tomorrow, I told myself, knowing damn well I had said that before.
I forked some chicken and pasta together and took a bite. The sauce was decadent, rich, creamy, a gentle bite of pepper, pancetta adding depth, fresh herbs bringing brightness. The chicken was tender, the noodles just right. Whatever else could be said about Evelyn, she knew how to cook.
“So, how has work been?” Violet asked, trying to nudge the silence into something more welcoming. She kept eating slowly, dragging pieces of chicken lightly through the sauce before chewing.
“Oh, extremely hectic. Ever since Mr. Rutherford took over…” Evelyn launched into a full explanation, gesturing with her fork, her voice animated.
I let myself relax for a moment, watching Violet. She rarely ate much dairy, but since she sometimes tolerated cheese, I figured this dish must be alright. She looked comfortable enough, listening to her mother, and absentmindedly lifted a hand to touch the side of her jaw.
I helped myself to more vegetables and tore open a roll to smear it with butter.
Violet touched her neck again. Then her cheek. She took a drink of water and continued speaking, though her voice held a faint strain now. “It sounds like they really value everything you are doing,” she said.
Richard’s fork suddenly stilled. “Violet. Your neck.”
I leaned forward. The skin at her throat had erupted in raised, furious red patches. Scratches from her nails had left streaks across her skin, each mark growing brighter and more alarming.
“Oh,” she murmured, looking down instinctively, though she could not see the affected area. The irritation was climbing, across her neck, up toward her face. “I feel… kind of itchy.” She reached for her water again.
Evelyn stopped moving. Completely. She stared at her plate as if it could tell her what to do.
Something hit my stomach like a fist.
“Evelyn,” I said, my voice low, “what did you add to the meal?”
“No, nothing happened,” Violet insisted immediately, tugging at her dress neckline as though it was suddenly too tight. “I am just warm, that is all.”
But she was not alright. Her skin had gone pale beneath the rising rash, and the contrast made the irritation look brutal.
I reached for my phone, and only then remembered it was still upstairs charging.
“Richard, call emergency services. Now.”
My father lifted his gaze, expression unchanged. “Is that necessary?” he asked, as though bored. “She said she is fine. It is a bit of irritation, that is all.”
Violet’s breaths began coming in short, strained bursts. I stared at my father in disbelief, but Richard did not spare him a look. He already had his phone to his ear.
I shoved my chair back and moved quickly to Violet’s side, my hands hovering uselessly, desperate to do something. “Violet, do you have emergency meds? An injector? Anything?”
Her eyes were wide now, truly afraid. She dragged her nails across her throat again, leaving angry, rising patches in their wake. Her breathing grew more uneven, and I could see her pulse racing just beneath her skin.
“She is having a severe reaction,” Richard said loudly into the phone, voice sharp with urgency. “She has allergies, she must have ingested something she cannot have.” He paused, listening, then looked at me. “We need to get her on the floor with her legs raised.”
I lifted her into my arms and carried her to the living room where there was space. I set her down as gently as I could and grabbed cushions from the couch to elevate her feet.
“Stay with us, Princess,” I said, my voice shaking despite how hard I tried to sound calm. I brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. “Help is coming. I promise.”
Her breathing was deteriorating fast. Her eyes were wide and frightened.
Evelyn hovered at the edge of the room, twisting her hands together.
I glared up at her. “Tell me what you put in the food.”
Her face crumpled. “He told me she was pretending, that it was only to get attention,” she said, tears building thickly. “He swore nothing would actually happen.”
“Who the fuck told you that?” I demanded.
“Ronald,” she choked out. “My therapist.”
Richard’s face went dark. “What did you add?”
“Almond milk,” she breathed, barely audible. “I thinned the sauce with almond milk.”
Richard leaned forward. “Tree nuts. You knew. You absolutely knew she could not have that.”
“I thought…” Evelyn broke, her voice ragged as she collapsed onto the loveseat. “He said she was just acting.”
“I do not fucking care what he said!” Richard exploded. “He is not a medical professional, and you are her mother. You were supposed to protect her.”
I looked down, and my stomach dropped. Violet’s lips had taken on a bluish cast. Her chest no longer moved.
“She is not breathing!” I shouted. I pressed two fingers to her neck, searching for her pulse, but there was nothing.
Richard shoved me aside and dropped to his knees. He interlocked his hands and began pressing down on her chest in steady, powerful movements. “Call the gate and tell them to let the ambulance drive straight through!” he ordered, tossing his phone to me before sealing his mouth over hers to deliver breaths.
My hands shook so violently I almost dropped the phone. I did not know how he stored numbers, so I punched in Nash’s contact and spoke so fast I could barely hear myself. I told him what was happening and begged him to make sure the entrance was cleared.
Time stretched in a horrific, suspended state.
Then…sirens.
The front door swung open and two paramedics rushed inside. One, tall and lean, already had a syringe in hand. Without hesitation, he drove the needle into Violet’s outer thigh.