In the months after that dinner, life technically went back to normal, but our rituals around food never did. We learned the names of obscure parasites, checked recall lists, and quietly avoided raw greens at restaurants without ever admitting why. The incident became a private fault line in our shared history, a story we rarely told because the retelling made our skin crawl all over again.
Yet, slowly, the sharp edge of terror dulled into wary vigilance. We found new places to eat, cooked more at home, and accepted that absolute safety is an illusion we only notice when it shatters. That night’s crawling revelation didn’t just poison a salad; it forced us to see how fragile trust really is. In learning to eat without fear again, we weren’t reclaiming innocence, only choosing, with eyes open, to live with the risk that once devoured our peace.
