“Backs straight. Chins up. Smile.”

We sit around the table, my relatives and I, pretending to listen to my mom giving us instructions as the photographer takes our family portrait. It’s Grandma’s eightieth, and, as is tradition, she sits front and center, a brilliant smile on her face. The photographer keeps shifting the camera atop its tripod, trying to get different angles, but each time, he says, “Something isn’t right.”

My great-grandmother died at the age of 79. An aneurysm in her stomach burst and she bled out. My grandmother had colon cancer. My mother has celiac disease. Should I be worried? With all these intestinal issues in the family, I was, unsurprisingly, diagnosed as mildly lactose intolerant. It’s not the worst scenario in the world, but it does leave me wondering about all those times I ordered pizza and asked for soy cheese, only to be greeted by an all-too-familiar stomachache an hour later. I always convinced myself that it was nothing, just eating too much. Or maybe some dairy products had come into contact with my order. Nothing major.

Too bad food isn’t the only thing that gives me stomachaches. I get them when my family goes to drop something off at Grandma Wei’s house and my mom waits in the car while my dad and I go inside. I get them every time Aunt Elaine calls and I’m told not to answer because my dad is not happy with her at the moment. I get them every time Uncle Miles joins us for a dinner out and laughs at my mom’s special requests because of her food allergy, telling her to “get over it.” It does seem cold, but my mom says that’s the universal solution when you grow up in the arctic tundra that is Winnipeg: to get over it.

Ironic, since no one can seem to “get over” their problems in my family. My mom and my aunt, two very stubborn, opinionated women, had some sort of fight decades ago. As a result, I haven’t seen Aunt Vicky or my cousin Nicole in 13 years. I’m 19. They say time heals all wounds, but how can a wound heal when it is never treated?

I haven’t had a stomachache in a while now. It’s unnerving. You think I would feel better, happier at having a calmer intestine – but is it really calm, or just numb? And does it matter? As long as there’s no pain, everything is fine, right?

I wonder if I pretend the ache doesn’t exist because that’s easier than pretending the problem doesn’t exist. The real problem is not one that can be blamed on a bad Caesar’s pizza. It would be so much easier to just ignore it and live in that picture-perfect world, even with all its cracks and wrinkles. Facing a lie is difficult; confronting the truth can be excruciating. Maybe even more excruciating than a stomachache.

And so here we all are, the whole family reunited for the first time in a decade for the eightieth birthday of its matriarch. Mom and Aunt Vicky sit at opposite ends of the table. Dad’s arm is around Aunt Elaine, but not quite making physical contact. Grandma is sitting front and center, arms spread, smile wide. Only one corner of her mouth droops a little – almost impossible to notice. Almost.

“There we are,” the photographer says with a smile.

Picture perfect. There’s only one thing missing.

Me.