My mother-in-law, Susan, has always hated me. In front of my husband, Mark, she’s all smiles; the moment he leaves, her face goes cold. Last night, she brought a huge pot of “peace offering” beef stew. I ate half a bowl. It tasted bitter, earthy, wrong—but I forced it down.
Hours later, scrubbing the pot, I found a small plastic spike with faded writing: Nerium oleander. My blood ran cold. I had almost eaten poison. Mark had eaten two full bowls. I called 911, shaking, panicked, and woke him. He dismissed it as a mistake.
At the hospital, our tests confirmed it: oleander poisoning. Even with activated charcoal, we were lucky to be alive. The police investigated. Susan’s story of an accidental plant tag crumbled under evidence: recently purchased oleanders, financial motive, and lab-confirmed toxins.
Mark finally saw the truth: the woman who raised him had tried to kill him for insurance money. Susan was arrested. Weeks of therapy followed. Mark and I slowly rebuilt our lives, eventually moving across the country, planting our own garden, and learning to trust our instincts above all else.