I faked a smile and pretended to eat, lifting my fork to my lips but never taking a bite. I waited until everyone had served themselves and started eating, then I didn’t touch my plate. Instead, I started recording. I placed my phone between the crystal wine glasses, camera hidden, audio on. I needed proof. When everyone was distracted by conversation, I gently pushed my plate forward, a silent signal to my mom. She knew. I knew. But we didn’t know what, exactly.

Feigning a sudden wave of nausea, I ran to the bathroom. With a napkin, I wrapped a piece of the food—a slice of the roasted chicken Helen had insisted on serving me herself—and hid it in the hidden compartment of my purse.