I (58F) have a known allergy to cinnamon—not fatal, but enough to ruin my day and keep me in the bathroom. My son (28M) married a girl (26F) who’s obsessed with her sourdough starter like it’s her firstborn. Ever since she got into baking, she’s been showing off her loaves on social media like she’s the next Julia Child. Fine. I don’t care—until it starts happening under my roof.

We’re all together for a visit, and my teen daughters ask her to make cinnamon swirl bread. Of course, she jumps at the chance, thrilled to show off. She also brings me two mini loaves she made “just for me”—one plain and one cheddar-jalapeño, carefully wrapped and separated. Like I’m some fragile pet she needs to accommodate. The effort was noted, I suppose, but it felt performative more than genuine.

When I saw that cinnamon loaf, I said it looked good (because it did), and I figured, hey, maybe a little taste wouldn’t hurt. Everyone freaked out, acting like I was trying to set myself on fire. I said I’d just avoid the swirl part. Took a bite. Then another. And guess what? It was good. Too good. So yeah, I had more.

A couple hours later, I was regretting it—as expected. So I texted them to let them know. Maybe I was being a little dramatic, but I was in pain, and I felt ignored in my own home. Now my son and his wife are acting like I’m the villain, saying she “went out of her way” and “I brought it on myself.”

Sorry, but maybe don’t bring allergy-laced baked goods into my house in the first place. I’ve seen her act like a cinnamon goddess before, making sure everyone knows how “amazing” her bread is. I didn’t ask for that circus.

So yeah, I’m petty and I’m disappointed—mostly that I’m being made to feel like I overstepped for eating a piece of bread in my own kitchen. AITAH?