My mother-in-law, Susan, has always hated me. In front of my husband, Mark, she’s all smiles and hugs. The moment he leaves the room, her face goes cold. She told me once that I was a “temporary problem.”
So last night, when she showed up with a huge pot of her homemade beef stew, I was on high alert. “A peace offering,” she said, her smile tight. Mark was thrilled. “See? I told you she’d come around!” He ate two bowls.

I ate half of one. It tasted… wrong. Bitter. A strong, earthy taste I couldn’t place. I forced it down to avoid a fight.
She insisted we keep the pot. A gift. Hours later, I was at the sink, scrubbing the caked-on mess at the bottom. My scouring pad caught on something small and hard. It wasn’t food. It was a little plastic spike, the kind they stick in the dirt at a plant store.
I rinsed it off. The writing was faded and green. Nerium oleander. I’d never heard of it. I pulled out my phone with my wet hands and typed the name into the search bar. The first result loaded, and my blood went cold. The federal toxicology website read: “Warning: Ingesting even a single leaf can be fatal. The poison is so strong that it can contaminate honey made from its nectar.”

My phone slipped from my fingers and clattered into the stainless steel sink. The sound was like a gunshot in the silent house. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror.
Contaminate. Fatal. Poison. The words swirled in my head, thick and sludgy.
I looked from the phone to the pot, then to the closed door of our bedroom where Mark was sound asleep. He ate two bowls. Two whole, heaping bowls. My stomach lurched, a violent, cramping twist that had nothing to do with the stew and everything to do with the truth.
I stumbled out of the kitchen, my legs shaking so badly I had to brace myself against the wall. I crept into our bedroom. Mark was snoring softly, a peaceful rumble in the darkness. He looked so normal. So alive.