My mother-in-law gave me antifreeze pills in my tea for months. My name is Rebecca Chen and four years ago, I almost d!ed because my mother-in-law hated me so much. She decided k!lling me was a reasonable solution to her problem. The problem being that I existed and had married her son. I’m sitting in my kitchen right now staring at my phone.

Marcus just texted me, not called, texted. Like, this is the kind of thing you can just casually drop in a text message. Mom got out last week. She wants to talk. I think we should all sit down together, maybe with a therapist. I read it three times. Then, I sat my phone face down on the counter and went to make myself tea. Then, I stopped.

I haven’t been able to drink tea since the trial. Isn’t that funny? She took that from me, too. I used to love tea, earl grey with honey. Now, even the smell makes my stomach turn. Let me back up. Let me tell you how we got here. Because this story doesn’t start with antifreeze or hidden cameras or courtrooms.

It starts way before that. It starts with me being stupid enough to think I could win over a woman who smiled at me during Sunday dinners while mentally measuring me for a coffin. I met Marcus 7 years ago at a coffee shop in Portland. He was a software engineer. I was finishing my degree in graphic design.

He had this gentle way about him, kind eyes, always listened when I talked. We clicked immediately. 6 months later, we were living together. A year after that, engaged. The first time I met Patricia, his mother, she brought homemade cookies to our apartment, chocolate chip. She hugged me, told me I was beautiful, said she was so happy Marcus had found someone, she asked about my family, my work, my hobbies.

She seemed genuinely interested. I remember thinking how lucky I was. My own mother had passed away when I was 19, and my dad had remarried someone I barely spoke to. The idea of having a mother figure again, even through marriage, felt like a gift. I was such an idiot. The wedding was beautiful. Patricia helped plan everything.

She insisted on paying for the flowers. She threw me a bridal shower. She cried during the ceremony. In all the photos, she’s smiling, her arm around my waist, looking at my husband like he hung the moon. Looking at me like I was part of the family, Marcus and I bought a house in Beaverton, about 20 minutes from his parents.

His dad, Frank, was this quiet, gentleman who spent most of his time in his woodworking shop. Patricia was the force in that family. She called the shots, made the plans, organized every holiday, and she started coming over a lot. At first, it was nice she’d bring groceries, help me organize the kitchen, give me tips on cooking Marcus’ favorite meals, but then it became more frequent.

Three times a week, four times a week. She had a key because Marcus had given her one for emergencies. She’d let herself in. I’d come home from work and she’d be in my kitchen rearranging my cabinets. I just thought this would make more sense, she’d say. Moving my plates to a different shelf.

I’d smile, thank her, because that’s what you do, right? You don’t start a war over cabinet organization. But it escalated. She had opinions about everything. The paint color in our bedroom, the furniture we bought. She’d make comments about my clothes, my hair, my weight. Always phrased as concern or help. Rebecca, honey, that dress is lovely, but don’t you think something a bit more structured would flatter your figure better? You look tired.

Are you getting enough sleep? You know, stress can age you. Marcus would tell me I was being sensitive. She’s just trying to help. That’s how she shows love, but it didn’t feel like love. It felt like constant criticism, like I was being slowly eroded piece by piece. Then we decided to have a baby. I got pregnant pretty quick. We were both thrilled.

When we told Patricia, she cried. “Happy tears,” she said. She threw her arms around Marcus, then around me. She started buying baby things immediately. A crib, a changing table, clothes in every size. She wanted to be involved in everything. The nursery design, the baby shower. She asked to come to my doctor appointments.

That’s when things got really weird. She started making these comments about how I needed to take better care of myself, how I wasn’t eating right for the baby. She’d bring over specialties, herbs, supplements. “I took these when I was pregnant with Marcus,” she’d say. They made everything so much easier.

I didn’t want to take them. Something felt off. But Marcus would encourage me. Mom knows what she’s doing. She’s been through this. I lost the baby at 12 weeks. The doctor said it was just one of those things. It happens. No explanation. My body just stopped being pregnant. I was devastated. Marcus was devastated. Patricia came over every single day after that.

Bringing food, sitting with me, holding my hand while I cried. “You’ll try again,” she’d whisper. “And next time we’ll be different. We waited 6 months. Then we tried again. I got pregnant again pretty quickly, but this time I didn’t tell Patricia right away. I wanted to wait. Make sure everything was okay first.” Marcus agreed, but somehow she knew.

She showed up one day with a bag of those same herbs and teas for the baby, she said, smiling. I had a feeling I took them because I didn’t know how to say no. Because saying no would mean admitting I didn’t trust her, and I wasn’t ready to voice that suspicion out loud. I lost that baby, too. At 14 weeks, the doctor said some women just have difficulty caring to term. She recommended a specialist.

Tests. Marcus and I were shattered. Two losses in a year. We decided to take a break from trying, focus on each other, heal, but I started feeling sick. Not pregnancy sick, just sick. Tired all the time, nauseous, headaches, brain fog. I’d forget things. Simple things. Where I put my keys, what day it was.

I’d be in the middle of a conversation and lose my train of thought completely. I went to the doctor. They ran bl00d tests. Everything came back normal. Probably stress, they said. Maybe depression after your losses. Have you considered therapy? I started therapy. I started taking anti-depressants. Nothing helped.

I felt worse. My hands would shake. My vision would blur. I’d have these episodes where my heart would race and I couldn’t breathe and I thought I was dying. Panic attacks. My therapist said, “From the trauma of the miscarriages.” Patricia was there through all of it, bringing meals, checking on me, making me tea.

She’d come over in the afternoons, especially on days when Marcus was at work. She’d let herself in with her key. I brought you some of that chamomile you like, she’d say. and I made soup. You need to eat, sweetheart. I’d drink the tea because it was easier than arguing because I was so tired and she was being so kind and I felt guilty for ever doubting her.

This went on for months. I got sicker. I lost weight. My hair started falling out. I couldn’t work anymore. I’d spend whole days in bed too exhausted to move. The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. They tested for everything. Lupus, multiple sclerosis, Lyme disease. Everything came back negative.

It might be chronic fatigue syndrome, one doctor suggested, or fibromyalgia. These things are hard to diagnose. Marcus was worried, but he was also getting frustrated. I could see it. The way he’d sigh when I said I was too tired to make dinner. the way he’d suggest I just needed to push through it. Exercise more, eat better.

Maybe mom’s right, he said one night. Maybe you’re not trying hard enough to get better. I stared at him. You think I want to feel like this? No, I just I don’t know, Becca. You’ve been sick for almost a year. The doctors can’t find anything wrong. Maybe it is in your head. That hurt more than the physical symptoms.

The idea that my husband thought I was making this up, being dramatic, lazy. Patricia, of course, was understanding. Men don’t always get it, she’d tell me, patting my hand. They think everything can be fixed with logic. But we know better, don’t we? Women’s bodies are complicated. She’d make me tea. I’d drink it. I’d feel worse.

One afternoon, I was lying on the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness when I heard Patricia in the kitchen. She’d let herself in again. I heard the kettle, the clink of a cup. Then she walked into the living room with my tea. “Drink up, sweetheart,” she said, setting it on the coffee table. “This will help.” I reached for it, but my hand was shaking so badly, I almost dropped it.

Patricia sat down next to me, picked up the cup, and held it to my lips like I was a child. “There you go,” she murmured. “Good girl,” I drank. She stayed with me for a while, scrolling through her phone, occasionally glancing at me. And then she said something that made my bl00d run cold. “You know, Rebecca, I never thought Marcus would marry someone like you.

” I blinked at her. What? Oh, I don’t mean it in a bad way, she said quickly, smiling. You’re just so different from what I imagined for him. I always thought he’d end up with someone more traditional, family oriented, someone who could give him children. We’re trying, I said weekly. The miscarriages weren’t my fault. Of course not, she said, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

I just worry, you know, that maybe you’re not strong enough for this life. For Marcus, he needs someone who can keep up with him, support him, be a real partner. I was too sick to argue. Too tired to defend myself. I just closed my eyes and let her words wash over me. After she left, I lay there thinking, replaying the conversation. Something was wrong.

Something had always been wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. That night, I told Marcus what she’d said. He got defensive immediately. She didn’t mean it like that. You’re reading too much into it, Marcus. She basically said, “I’m not good enough for you. She’s worried about you, Becca. We all are. You’re sick all the time.

You can’t work. You can barely function. She’s just expressing concern.” It didn’t feel like concern. It felt like criticism. He sighed, rubbed his face. Can we not do this right now? I’m exhausted. I dropped it. But the seed of doubt was planted. The next time Patricia came over, I didn’t drink the tea.

I told her I wasn’t feeling up to it, that even liquids were making me nauseous. She looked disappointed, but she didn’t push. And you know what? I felt a little better that day. Not much, but a little. The next week, she came over again, made tea again. I told her I’d drink it later. After she left, I poured it down the sink. I felt better, clearer.

My headache faded. I could think straight for the first time in weeks. I started refusing the tea, making excuses, and slowly, day by day, I felt less sick. The brain fog lifted. The shaking stopped. I could get out of bed without feeling like I was going to collapse. That’s when I knew. I knew something was wrong with the tea, I told Marcus.

I said I thought his mother was putting something in my drinks. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. That’s insane, Rebecca. You’re accusing my mother of poisoning you. I’m just saying every time I drink her tea, I feel worse. And when I stopped drinking it, I started feeling better.

That’s correlation, not causation. It could be anything. Stress, your body fighting off an infection, anything. Marcus, please just listen to me. No, Becca, I’m done listening to you trash my mother. She’s done nothing but help you, and you’re making up conspiracy theories about her. Maybe you do need to see a psychiatrist because this is paranoid.

I felt like I’d been slapped. My own husband didn’t believe me. Thought I was crazy, so I decided to prove it. I ordered a nanny cam on Amazon, one of those that looks like a regular household object. I got one disguised as a phone charger and set it up on the kitchen counter, facing the stove in the kettle. The next time Patricia came over, I pretended to be asleep on the couch.

I heard her let herself in. Heard her moving around in the kitchen, the kettle boiling. And then I heard her footsteps. “Rebecca,” she called softly. I didn’t answer. Kept my breathing deep and even. She went back to the kitchen. I heard drawers opening, the clink of a spoon. More footsteps, then the sound of liquid being poured.

Rebecca, honey, I made you tea. She called again. I stirred, pretended to wake up. Oh, Patricia, I didn’t hear you come in. I used my key. I brought lunch. She walked over with a cup of tea. Drink this first. You need to stay hydrated. I took it. Held it. Thank you. I’ll drink it in a minute. She watched me, waiting. I raised the cup to my lips, tilted it slightly, but didn’t actually drink.

When she looked away, I set it down. I need to use the bathroom, I said, standing. My legs were shaky, but I made it upstairs. I locked myself in the bathroom and waited 10 minutes, 15. When I came back down, Patricia was gone. The cup was still on the coffee table, half full. I didn’t touch it. I left it exactly where it was.

That night, after Marcus went to bed, I checked the camera footage on my phone. My hands were shaking as I watched. Patricia entering the kitchen, filling the kettle. While it boiled, she opened her purse, pulled out a small bottle, looked around even though she thought I was asleep. Then she unscrewed the cap and poured something into my cup.

Just a little bit, maybe a tablespoon. Then she stirred it, made the tea, poured it into the cup, stirred again. I watched it three times. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but there it was, clear as day. My mother-in-law poisoning my tea. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay next to Marcus, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do.

Part of me wanted to wake him up, show him the video immediately, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me. He’d make excuses, say the video wasn’t clear enough, that maybe it was just herbs or supplements, that I was overreacting, so I didn’t tell him. Not yet. The next morning, after Marcus left for work, I called a lawyer, explained the situation.

She listened, asked questions, then told me to call the police immediately. “This is attempted murder,” she said flatly. “You need to file a report, and you need to preserve that cop as evidence.” I called the police. They sent two officers to my house. I showed them the video, showed them the cup, which I’d carefully covered with plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator. They took it seriously.

They took the cup, took the camera, took a statement. They told me they’d investigate. “Do not drink anything she gives you,” one officer said. “And don’t be alone with her. Can you stay somewhere else?” I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have family nearby. My friends were mostly couple friends, Marcus’ friends, and I didn’t know who to trust. I’ll stay home, I said.

I’ll lock the doors. Change the locks. They nodded. Said they’d be in touch. 2 days later, they came back with results from the lab. The tea had been laced with ethylene glycol antifreeze. Not enough to k!ll me in one dose, but definitely enough to make me sick. And if I’d been drinking it regularly for months, it had been accumulating in my system, damaging my kidneys, my liver, my brain.

You’re lucky you stopped drinking it when you did, the detective told me. Another few weeks and you might not have made it. They arrested Patricia that afternoon at her house. Marcus called me from his parents place. Hysterical. What did you do? The police just arrested my mother. They’re saying you accused her of trying to k!ll you, Marcus.

She was poisoning me. I have it on video. That’s impossible. You’re lying. This is insane. I’ll show you the video. Come home. He came home. I showed him. He watched in silence, his face getting paler and paler. When it was over, he just sat there. That’s not She wouldn’t He couldn’t finish the sentence. She did.

Marcus, for months, she was slowly k!lling me. But why? Why would she do that? Because she hates me. She’s always hated me. She wanted me gone. He shook his head. No, no, she loved you. She was always so kind to you. That’s what she wanted you to think. He stood up, walked out of the room. I heard him on the phone calling his father.

I heard him crying. The next few weeks were a nightmare. Patricia’s lawyer tried to paint me as unstable, vengeful, someone who’ fabricated evidence because I didn’t like my mother-in-law. But the video was clear. The lab results were clear. The doctors I’d seen over the past year testified about my symptoms, which were consistent with ethylene glycol poisoning. Marcus was torn apart.

He didn’t know what to believe. His mother swore she was innocent, that I’d set her up somehow. His father stood by her, shocked but loyal. Marcus went to stay with them for a while. Said he needed space to think. “You’re my wife,” he said. “But she’s my mother. I don’t know how to process this.

Your mother tried to k!ll me. I know what the evidence says, but I just I can’t wrap my head around it.” He didn’t come back home. He stayed with his dad. Patricia was out on bail, and Marcus was there in that house with a woman who tried to murder me. The trial was long, brutal. Patricia’s lawyer argued that maybe I’d been taking antifreeze myself, trying to frame her, that I had mental health issues, a history of pregnancy losses that had made me unstable.

They brought up my anti-depressants, my therapy, my inability to work. But the prosecution had the video. They had the cup. They had the medical evidence. They had the fact that once I stopped drinking her tea, I’d started recovering. The jury deliberated for 3 days. When they came back, they found her guilty.

Attempted murder. She was sentenced to 8 years. Marcus and I separated during the trial. He just couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t reconcile the mother he’d known his whole life with a woman who’d methodically poisoned his wife. He blamed me in some ways. Said I destroyed his family. That if I just gotten along with her better, none of this would have happened.

She did this because she hated me. I told him. But she’s the one who chose to commit murder, not me. You ruined her life. he said. She tried to end mine. We didn’t divorce, though. Neither of us had the energy. We just lived separately. He stayed with his dad. I stayed in our house. We barely spoke. Time passed. I got better physically. My kidneys recovered.

My liver healed. The brain fog cleared. I went back to work freelancing from home. I started rebuilding my life without Marcus in it. And then last week, I got the text. Patricia had been released early for good behavior. Four years instead of eight. And now Marcus wants family therapy.

I’m sitting here staring at my phone reading his text over and over. Mom got out last week. She wants to talk. I think we should all sit down together. Maybe with a therapist. I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to laugh. The absurdity of it. family therapy with the woman who tried to k!ll me.

Like, we’re going to sit in a circle and talk about our feelings and somehow work through the fact that she fed me antifreeze for months. Part of me is furious that Marcus would even suggest this, that he thinks there’s anything to salvage here, and part of me is scared because Patricia is out. She’s out of prison, and she knows where I live, and there’s nothing stopping her from trying again.

I call my lawyer, the one who helped me through the trial. She’s not surprised by my call. I heard she got out, she says. Are you okay? My husband wants us to do family therapy together. There’s a long pause. Rebecca, you don’t owe anyone that, especially not her. I know, but Marcus, he’s still my husband technically.

And I think part of him believes that if we just talk, if we just work through this, somehow his family can be whole again. His mother tried to murder you. I know you almost d!ed. I know. So why are you even considering this? That’s the question, isn’t it? Why am I considering it? Maybe because I’m curious. Maybe because after 4 years of silence, of separation, of living in this weird limbo between married and divorced.

I want to know what Patricia has to say. I want to look her in the eye and ask her why. Why did you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you besides love your son? Or maybe I’m just tired. Tired of running? Tired of being afraid? Tired of letting her actions control my life? Even now, 4 years later, I’ll think about it.

I tell my lawyer. I text Marcus back. When? His response is immediate. This Saturday, 2 p.m., Dr. Chen’s office in Portland. She specializes in family reconciliation. Family reconciliation. Like we’re talking about a disagreement over Thanksgiving dinner, not attempted murder. I’ll be there. I type. Then I delete it. Type it again.

Delete it again. Finally, I send fine. The days leading up to Saturday crawl by. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I keep thinking about what I’m going to say, how I’m going to face her. I practice in the mirror, trying out different expressions. Anger, indifference, calm. None of them feel right. I think about not going.

just texting Marcus and saying, “I changed my mind.” But something keeps me from doing that. Some need for closure, or maybe just the need to see her, to confirm that she’s real, that this whole nightmare actually happened, and I didn’t imagine it. Saturday comes. I drive to Portland. The therapist’s office is in a nice building downtown, all glass and steel.

I park in the garage and sit in my car for 10 minutes breathing. My hands are shaking. I feel sick, but I get out. I go inside. I take the elevator to the fifth floor. Marcus is already there in the waiting room. He looks older, thinner. There are lines around his eyes that weren’t there four years ago.

He stands when he sees me. Becca, he says, just my name, nothing else. Marcus. We stand there, awkward. Then he gestures to the chairs. Mom’s not here yet. She’s coming with dad. Of course she is. Can’t face me alone. We sit. Don’t talk. I flip through a magazine without reading it. Marcus scrolls through his phone. The minutes tick by.

Then the elevator dings. The doors open. And there she is. Patricia Reeves, four years older, grayer, thinner. Prison changed her. She’s not the polished, put together woman I remember. She looks brittle, fragile. But when her eyes meet mine, I see something familiar. That coldness, that calculating look. Frank is with her, his hand on her elbow.

He looks at me and quickly looks away like he’s ashamed. The therapist appears. A woman in her 50s with kind eyes and a nononsense air. Dr. Chen. Everyone’s here. Let’s go to my office. We follow her down a hallway. The office is spacious with comfortable chairs arranged in a circle. No couch, no desk, just chairs. Equal footing, I guess.

We sit, me, Marcus, Patricia, Frank, all facing each other. Dr. Chen sits last. “Thank you all for coming,” she says. “I know this is difficult, but I believe that communication, even in the most painful circumstances, can lead to healing. Today, we’re going to talk. Really talk. And I want everyone to feel safe to speak their truth.

” I almost laugh. Feel safe. I’m sitting 5t away from a woman who tried to k!ll me. Dr. Chen looks at Patricia. Patricia, would you like to start? You asked for this session. What would you like to say? Patricia takes a breath. Her hands are folded in her lap, fingers twisted together. She looks at me. Rebecca, I owe you an apology. I wait.

Don’t say anything. What I did was unforgivable. I know that. I’ve had four years to think about it, to understand it, and I’m truly deeply sorry. The words sound rehearsed. Hollow. I was in a very dark place. She continues. I had been diagnosed with early onset dementia. I wasn’t thinking clearly. My judgment was impaired. I became paranoid, fixated.

I convinced myself that you were trying to take Marcus away from me, that you were ruining his life. None of that was true. I know that now, but at the time, I believed it. Wait, dementia? Dr. Chen nods like this is something she already knows. Patricia was diagnosed shortly before her arrest.

It’s part of the reason her sentence was reduced. I stare at Marcus. Did he know this? He won’t meet my eyes. I wasn’t in my right mind, Patricia says. I can’t undo what I did. But I want you to know that I never would have done something like that if I’d been healthy. If I’d been myself. There’s a long silence. Dr.

Chen looks at me. Rebecca, how does it feel to hear this? How does it feel? I don’t even know where to start. It feels like an excuse, I say finally. My voice is steady, cold. Dementia doesn’t make you a murderer. Plenty of people have dementia and they don’t poison their daughters-in-law. Patricia flinches. I know you’re right.

I’m not trying to excuse it. I’m just trying to explain. You don’t get to explain, I say. And my voice is rising now. You don’t get to sit here and act like you were some victim of a disease. You made a choice. Every single time you came to my house, made that tea, poured that poison, you made a choice. You watched me suffer.

You watched me get sicker and sicker and you kept doing it, Rebecca. Marcus starts. No. I cut him off. You wanted me here. You wanted us to talk. So, let me talk. I turn back to Patricia. Did you know I was pregnant? Either time, her face goes pale. She doesn’t answer. You did, didn’t you? You knew.

And you poisoned me anyway. You k!lled my babies. That’s not She starts. The doctor said the miscarriages were unexplained. But they weren’t, were they? It was the poison. You were poisoning me while I was pregnant. Marcus stands up abruptly. Stop. Just stop. You asked for the truth, I say, looking at him.

You wanted family therapy. This is the truth. Your mother didn’t just try to k!ll me. She succeeded in k!lling your children. The room goes silent. Frank has his head in his hands. Patricia is crying, but they’re not the right kind of tears. They’re angry tears. Defensive tears. I didn’t know, she says. I didn’t know you were pregnant.

You didn’t tell me because I didn’t trust you. I’m shouting now. Some part of me knew. Some part of me always knew there was something wrong with you. And I was right. Dr. Chen tries to interject. Let’s take a breath. Everyone take a breath, but I can’t stop. Four years of silence, of rage, of grief, and it’s all pouring out.

You know what the worst part is? I say to Marcus. Not that your mother tried to k!ll me. That’s evil. But at least it’s straightforward. The worst part is that you didn’t believe me. Even after I showed you the video, even after the trial, some part of you still blamed me. Like I was the problem.

Like I’d somehow driven her to this. Becca, that’s not fair. It’s completely fair you chose her. Even after everything, you chose her. You stayed with her. You’re still defending her. She’s sick. Marcus shouts back. She has dementia. She’s not the same person who did those things. Yes, she is. I say quietly.

She’s exactly the same person. The dementia didn’t make her hate me. It just gave her an excuse to act on it. Patricia stands up. I don’t have to listen to this. I came here to apologize, to try to make amends, and you’re just attacking me. Make amends. I laugh and it’s a bitter sound. How exactly do you plan to make amends for trying to murder me? For k!lling my babies? For destroying my marriage? What could you possibly do to make that right? She doesn’t answer.

Just stands there trembling with rage or fear or guilt. I can’t tell which. That’s what I thought. I say I stand up. Look at Marcus. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I should have done it years ago. I don’t know why I waited. Maybe I thought you’d eventually see the truth. That you’d choose me, choose us, choose sanity. But you never will.

She’ll always be your mother and I’ll always be the woman who sent her to prison. Becca, wait. Marcus reaches for me. I step back. No, I’m done waiting. I’m done with all of this. I came here because you asked me to. Because some stupid part of me thought maybe finally we could have honesty, but this isn’t honesty. This is just more of the same.

Her making excuses, you enabling her and me standing here trying to make you see what’s right in front of you. I walk to the door. Dr. Chen calls after me. Rebecca, please. We’ve only just started. We started 4 years ago, I say without turning around. When she poured the first drop of poison into my cup. Everything since then has just been the slow de@th. And I’m not dying anymore.

I walk out down the hallway into the elevator. I’m shaking, but it’s not fear. It’s adrenaline. Release. I feel lighter than I have in years. I get in my car, sit there for a minute, then I drive. Not home, not yet. I drive to the coast two hours away to a little beach town I used to love. I park near the water, walk down to the sand.

It’s cold, windy, the ocean is gray and choppy. I walk along the shore, letting the wind whip my hair around, letting the spray h!t my face. My phone rings, Marcus. I don’t answer. He calls again, again, then Frank calls. I turn my phone off. I walk for an hour, maybe more. By the time I get back to my car, the sun is starting to set.

The sky is stre with orange and pink. It’s beautiful. I stand there watching it and I realize something. I’m free. For the first time in 7 years, I’m completely free. Free of Patricia. Free of Marcus. Free of the obligation to try to fix something that was broken from the start. I drive home. It’s late when I get there. Almost midnight.

I’m exhausted, but it’s a good exhaustion. Clean. I pour myself a glass of wine. Not tea. Never tea. I sit on my couch and I think about what comes next. A divorce. Finally, a clean break. Maybe I’ll move. Leave Portland. Start over somewhere new. Seattle. San Francisco. Somewhere nobody knows me or my story. Maybe I’ll change my name.

Go back to my maiden name. Chen, Rebecca Chen, just me. No connection to the Reeves family. No history of poison and betrayal. I fall asleep on the couch. The wine glass empty on the coffee table. I wake up to pounding on the door. It’s morning. Early morning. The sun is barely up. I stumbled to the door. Grggy.

Who is it? Police. Open up. Ms. Chen. My heart stops. I open the door. There are two officers standing there and they look serious. Ms. Chen, we need to ask you some questions about Patricia Reeves. My stomach drops. What happened? She’s dead. Found this morning at her home. We’re investigating it as suspicious. The world tilts.

What? When was the last time you saw her? Yesterday at a therapy session in Portland. There were witnesses, a therapist, her husband. My husband. What time did the session end? I don’t know. 2:30. 3:00. I left early. I went to the coast. I was there all afternoon. The officer nods, writing this down. Did you have any contact with her after that? No, none.

I turned my phone off. I haven’t talked to anyone. Can anyone verify your whereabouts? I was alone at the beach. Then I came home. They exchanged glances. We’re going to need you to come down to the station. Answer some more questions. Am I being arrested? Not at this time, but we need to gather information. You understand? I do understand.

I’m the obvious suspect. The woman Patricia tried to k!ll. The woman who just confronted her told her she’d never forgive her. Of course, they suspect me. I get dressed. Go with them. Spend the next 6 hours at the police station, answering questions, going over my timeline again and again. They take my phone, check my location data.

It backs up my story. I was at the coast. I was alone. I came home late. Finally, they let me go. Don’t leave town, they say. I drive home in a days. Patricia is dead. How? What happened? I turned my phone back on. There are dozens of missed calls, voicemails, texts, all from Marcus. I listen to the first voicemail.

His voice is raw, broken. Becca, she’s dead. Mom’s dead. They found her this morning. She Oh god, Becca, she k!lled herself. Left a note. I can’t I can’t do this. Please call me. I sit down hard on my couch. She took her own life. After the therapy session, after I walked out, the next voicemail is from Frank.

Rebecca, I know you have no reason to help us, but the note, she left a note for you. Would you be willing to read it, please? I think she wanted you to know something. I don’t want to read it. I don’t want anything from her, but curiosity wins out. I call Frank back. I’ll come over, I say. I drive to his house.

The house where Patricia lived, where she plotted my murder. I haven’t been here in 4 years. Frank answers the door. He looks like he’s aged a decade overnight. Thank you for coming. He leads me inside. The house is quiet, empty. Marcus is there sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. Frank hands me an envelope.

My name is written on it in Patricia’s shaky handwriting. I open it, pull out the letter. It’s several pages long. Rebecca, by the time you read this, I’ll be gone. I’m a coward. I know that. I couldn’t face what I’d become, what I’d done. The therapy session yesterday made me see it clearly for the first time. Not the dementia, not the diagnosis, but the truth. You were right about everything.

I did know you were pregnant both times and I poisoned you anyway. I told myself it was the baby I wanted to harm, not you. I told myself that if you lost the pregnancies, Marcus would leave you. That he’d see you were defective somehow, unable to give him children and he’d find someone else, someone I approved of.

But it wasn’t just about the babies. It was about you. I hated you from the moment I met you. I hated your independence, your intelligence. The way Marcus looked at you like you were his whole world. He never looked at me like that. Oh, he loved me, but it was a son’s love. Beautiful, expected. But you, he chose you. He would have done anything for you, and I couldn’t stand it.

I’ve spent my whole life being the center of Marcus’ world. His father was always distant, always in his workshop, leaving me to raise Marcus alone. And I did a good job. I made him into a good man, a successful man. He was mine, and then you came along and took him away from me. The dementia diagnosis was real. But it wasn’t the cause. It was the excuse.

When the doctor told me I had early onset dementia, I saw it as an opportunity, a way to do what I’d been wanting to do for years, a built-in defense if I ever got caught, and I was so careful. I researched antifreeze poisoning. I learned the symptoms. I knew exactly how much to give you to keep you sick, but not k!ll you outright.

I wanted you to suffer. I wanted Marcus to watch you deteriorate. I wanted him to eventually leave you or for you to leave him unable to handle being such a burden. I never thought you’d figure it out. I never thought you were smart enough to catch me, but you did. You set up that camera. You got the evidence.

You sent me to prison. And you know what? Prison was better than this. Better than sitting in that therapist’s office yesterday watching you finally say everything. I’d always suspected you knew. That I was evil. That I was a monster. That I destroyed your life on purpose with full intent and planning. The worst part wasn’t your anger. It was your pity.

I saw it in your eyes when you looked at me. You felt sorry for me. This pathetic, bitter old woman who was so insecure, so jealous that I tried to murder my own daughter-in-law. You’re right. I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t deserve family therapy or reconciliation or any of it. So, I’m taking the only option I have left.

I’m ending this. I’m setting all of you free. Marcus will mourn me. He’ll make me into a saint in his memory, the way sons do with their mothers. He’ll forget the bad parts. He’ll remember only the good. And maybe that’s better. Maybe he deserves to remember me as something other than what I really was.

But you’ll know the truth. You’ll always know I k!lled your babies. I tried to k!ll you. And I felt no remorse until yesterday when I saw what it had cost. Not you, not your suffering, but Marcus, my son, the one person I was trying to protect, and I destroyed him in the process. He’ll never forgive me.

And he’ll never forgive himself for not believing you sooner. That’s my real legacy. Not attempted murder, but breaking my son’s heart. I hope you get everything you wanted, Rebecca. I hope you heal. I hope you find happiness. I hope Marcus eventually does, too, though I doubt it. And I hope someday you can think of me without hatred. Not forgiveness.

I don’t deserve that, but maybe just understanding that I was a deeply broken person who made unforgivable choices. Goodbye, Patricia. I read it twice. My hands are shaking by the end. I look up. Marcus is watching me. What does it say? I fold the letter. Put it back in the envelope. She confessed to everything. The babies, the poisoning, all of it.

She said the dementia was an excuse, not a reason. Marcus’ face crumbles. No, no, that can’t be right. She was sick. The doctor said The doctor said she had dementia, but she said she used it as an excuse. That she hated me from the beginning. That she did it all on purpose. He stands up abruptly, knocking his chair over. I don’t believe it.

You’re lying. You hated her. You probably wrote that yourself. Marcus. Frank’s voice is quiet but firm. Stop. Just stop. Marcus turns to his father. Dad, you can’t seriously believe. I believe it. Frank says, “Because I knew. Not about the poison, but about the hatred. I saw how she looked at Rebecca when she thought no one was watching.

I heard the things she’d say about her when it was just the two of us. I told her to stop. I told her she was being cruel, that Rebecca was a good person, that she made you happy. But she wouldn’t listen. She was obsessed. Why didn’t you tell me? Marcus’ voice breaks because I thought it was just words. Just jealousy.

I never imagined she’d actually do something. I never thought she was capable of this. Frank’s eyes fill with tears. I failed you both. I should have seen it. Should have stopped it. The room is silent except for the sound of Marcus crying. Big gulping sobs. The sound of a man’s entire world shattering. I stand up. I’m sorry, I say. To Frank. To Marcus.

To the memory of who we used to be. I’m so sorry for all of it. I walk out, get in my car, drive home, and this time I don’t cry. I don’t feel angry. I just feel empty. Done. 3 weeks later, the divorce papers come. Marcus signed them. No contest. No alimony requested, just a clean break. The house is mine. He doesn’t want it.

Too many memories. I sign them. Mail them back. It’s over. Really? Finally over. I put the house on the market. It sells in two weeks. I pack up my life, donate most of it, and move to Seattle. I get a studio apartment with a view of the water. I start freelancing again, building my business back up.

I make new friends. Go on dates. None of them turn into anything, but that’s okay. I’m not ready yet. Maybe I never will be, but I’m alive. I’m healthy. I’m free. 6 months after the move, I get a letter from Frank. He tracked down my new address somehow. Inside is a check for $50,000 and a note. Rebecca, this is from Patricia’s life insurance.

Marcus doesn’t want it. Neither do I. We think you should have it. For the medical bills, for the therapy you’ll need, for starting over, we can’t undo what she did, but maybe this can help you build something new. I’m sorry for everything. You deserved better, Frank. I stare at the check for a long time.

Bl00d money in a way. Patricia’s final gift, though she never intended it for me. I think about sending it back, but I don’t. I deposit it, and I use it to go back to school, get my master’s degree in design, start my own firm, build something that’s entirely mine. Two years later, I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Seattle working on a client project.

Someone sits down across from me. I look up, ready to tell them the table is taken. It’s Marcus. He looks different. Older, yes, but also healthier, more settled. There’s a calmness to him that wasn’t there before. Hi, he says. Hi, I’m sorry to just show up. I called, but your number’s different. I changed it. Right, that makes sense.

He fidgets with his coffee cup. I’m in town for work. I saw your firm’s name in a magazine article about rising designers in the Pacific Northwest. I wanted to congratulate you. Thank you. Silence. Then he says, “I’m sorry. I know I said it before.” In the lawyer’s office in texts, but I don’t think I ever really meant it until now.

I’m sorry for not believing you, for choosing her over you, for making you feel like you were crazy when you were the only sane one in that whole situation. I study his face. He means it. I can tell. I forgive you, I say. And I mean it, too. Not because what he did was okay, but because holding on to it, holding on to all of it was just another kind of poison.

And I’m done being poisoned. Thank you, he says quietly. That means more than you know. We sit there for a while. Two people who used to be married, who used to share a life, now strangers who happen to know each other’s worst moments. Are you happy? He asks eventually. I think about it. About my little apartment, my growing business, my new friends, the therapy I’ve been doing, working through the trauma, the slow, steady process of rebuilding myself. Yeah, I say.

I think I am. Are you getting there? He says therapy helps. Finally dealing with all of it instead of running from it. Good. That’s good. He finishes his coffee, stands up. It was good to see you, Becca. Really? You too, Marcus? He walks out. I watch him go and then I go back to my work because that’s what survivors do. We keep going. We rebuild.

We choose life even when someone else tried to choose de@th for us. And we drink coffee instead of tea. Always coffee. Never te.