My daughter smiled a little too wide when she handed me the tea, and that was the first moment my stomach went still. Nothing about it was obvious—no strange smell, no odd color—just a brightness in her eyes that didn’t match the room or the season, and the way she leaned forward like she was watching my hands instead of sharing a holiday.
Karen had never cared what I drank before. Most years, she barely looked up from her phone during our Christmas visits, half-present in the way grown kids can be when they’ve already decided you’re background noise. But this time she practically glowed as she said, “I made this one special for you, Mom. Chamomile with honey, just how you like it. Drink it while it’s warm.”
I didn’t answer right away. I looked at the tea—pale gold steam curling up from the rim of my favorite blue mug—and then I looked at my son-in-law, Richard, who was suddenly very interested in adjusting the Christmas tree lights across the room. His cup sat untouched on the coffee table next to mine, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
I don’t know why I did it. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the years of catching them whispering in the kitchen when they thought I couldn’t hear, or the way they exchanged glances whenever I mentioned my savings, my house, or—heaven forbid—my doctor’s appointments. Whatever it was, I reached over and switched our cups as casually as moving a coaster.
Richard didn’t notice. No one noticed except Karen.
She stiffened for a fraction of a second—barely anything, the smallest hitch in her shoulders—but I saw it, and I felt it in my bones. Her smile faltered as she said, too quickly, “Wait—no, Mom. That one’s yours. I made it special.”
But I’d already taken a sip from his cup.
Plain black coffee. Bitter and cold.
I nodded politely like nothing had happened, like I was just an old woman enjoying a holiday morning. And then I waited.
Fifteen minutes later, Richard complained he felt dizzy. Twenty minutes after that, his words started sliding together, thick and careless, and when he tried to stand he couldn’t quite find the floor the way a healthy man should. At the half-hour mark, Karen was on the phone with someone, speaking in hushed, frantic tones while I sat perfectly still on the floral couch, watching the Christmas lights blink red and green against the frost-covered window.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
