We’d been together for less than a year as husband and wife when my husband invited me to visit his hometown for the weekend.
His parents greeted us eagerly at the door, all smiles, ushering us inside like I was already part of the family. His mom, Betty, hugged me tightly, practically glowing with warmth. She baked a pie, showed me the garden, and insisted we stay in the “best” guest room.It seemed like the perfect opportunity for bonding.
By the second night, the house was still. My husband was asleep, his breathing steady beside me. I slipped out of bed for a glass of water. As I padded down the hallway, I froze.A voice carried through the quiet. Betty’s voice. From the kitchen.
“Yes, the marriage went through just like we planned. Don’t worry… she won’t be around for long. I’ll handle it.”My heart stopped. My mouth went dry. Who was she talking to? Who was “she”?
I pressed my palm against the cool wall, willing myself not to make a sound. The call ended. Footsteps shuffled. Cabinet doors opened.I forced myself to move—into the kitchen. I needed water, needed a cover, anything to explain why I was standing there.
But what I saw made my stomach flip.Betty was humming softly as she stirred something at the stove. The pie-baking, flower-planting, sweet-smiling woman wasn’t sweet anymore. Her face was hard, focused. And in her hands was a bottle—dark glass, no label—that she tipped carefully into the simmering pot.
The smell hit me then. Bitter. Sharp. Wrong.She looked up and her whole face shifted—back into the cheerful mask.
“Oh, dear, couldn’t sleep?” she asked brightly. “I was just preparing a little something special for breakfast tomorrow. Family recipe.”She pushed the pot lid closed before I could glimpse more.
My throat tightened. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my feet stayed glued.I managed a weak smile. “Just… water.”
I filled my glass at the sink, avoiding her gaze. My hands shook so badly the water sloshed.When I finally slipped back into the guest room, my husband stirred. “Everything okay?” he mumbled, half-asleep.
I slid under the covers, staring at the ceiling.
“No,” I whispered so softly he couldn’t hear.
Because I had just seen my mother-in-law—the woman who gave me pie and called me family—poisoning something in her own kitchen.
And I didn’t know if I was meant to be the one eating it.