My daughter Ava turned seven last week. We kept it small—just balloons, pizza, and a few cousins in the backyard. My sister Brianna couldn’t make it, but she dropped off a tin of cookies the day before, wrapped in gold ribbon with a handwritten note:
“Happy Birthday, sweet Ava! Eat as many as you like. Love, Auntie Brianna.”

They were gorgeous. Little sugar cookies shaped like stars, frosted in soft pastel colors. Ava was excited but distracted by the other sweets at the party, so we saved them for later.

Three days passed.
The cookies sat untouched on the kitchen counter in their tin.

That afternoon, Brianna called. I was washing dishes.

“Hey!” I greeted her. “You missed a fun party. Thanks again for the cookies!”

There was a pause.

“Did… Ava eat any?” she asked carefully.

I laughed. “No, actually. Your kid came by earlier and ate all of them!”

Another pause.

“Wait—what do you mean?” she asked, her voice sharper now.

I chuckled. “Logan came by, remember? He was playing in the yard with Ava yesterday. I let him take the tin home. You didn’t know?”

And that’s when it happened.

Brianna’s voice rose sharply, a scream I’ve never heard from her in my life.

“Oh my God—TAKE HIM TO THE HOSPITAL!”

I dropped the sponge.

“What?”

Her voice was frantic. “The cookies weren’t for Ava. They—” she choked, “—they weren’t for kids at all!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I made two batches!” she cried. “Two! The ones for Ava are still in my fridge—I forgot to switch them. Those weren’t sugar cookies. They were—edibles. I made them for Derek. For stress. THC cookies!”

I froze.

Logan was only six.
And he had eaten every last one

I was already grabbing my keys when I heard Brianna sobbing on the other end.

“How many did he eat?” she yelled.

“All of them—there were like eight, maybe nine,” I stammered, heart pounding as I ran out the door.

“I didn’t think—I didn’t mean—oh God, they’re strong. Derek only eats half at a time. They’re not mild, Rachel. You need to get him to the ER now.”

I drove like a madwoman.

Logan lived just two streets over. I didn’t even knock—I ran straight through the front door. Brianna was already pulling up behind me, her husband Derek jumping out of their car.

We found Logan on the couch, curled up under a blanket. His eyes were half open, unfocused. He wasn’t responding.

“He said he felt weird last night,” Derek whispered, panicked. “But then he slept all day—”

Brianna burst into tears. “He was high. Our son was stoned for a full day and we didn’t even know.”

We rushed him to the emergency room.

They ran every test. He was conscious, groggy, dehydrated. His heart rate was elevated but stable. The doctor gave fluids, monitored him for hours.

“He’ll be okay,” they said. “Just keep him hydrated and calm. It’s going to take time.”

Brianna couldn’t stop shaking. Neither could I.

On the way home, she finally broke the silence.

“I should’ve labeled them. I should’ve—God, Rachel, I could’ve—” she swallowed, “—I could’ve killed your daughter.”

“But you didn’t,” I said quietly. “And I let a six-year-old eat mystery cookies. This is on me too.”

No charges. No reports.
But something broke between us that day.

Weeks passed.

Logan recovered. The story was never told to the rest of the family. It became our quiet shame.

But things weren’t the same with Brianna.

She became distant. Anxious. She stopped answering calls, missed family dinners, canceled Ava’s sleepover last minute. Something in her demeanor changed—she was scared all the time.

It wasn’t guilt. It was fear.

One day, she showed up at my door without warning. Pale, eyes wild.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

I let her in. She sat at the table, hands trembling.

“I didn’t tell you the full truth. About the cookies.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“There were two tins. One was for Ava. One was for Derek. I baked them on the same day.”

“Right.”

“But… I made a third batch,” she said quietly. “I made them… because I was angry.”

I blinked. “At who?”

Brianna looked up. “At you.”

I sat still.

“You always criticize my parenting. You talk about Logan like he’s your second kid. I’ve seen the way you undermine me, even when you don’t realize it. I was hurt. Resentful. I told myself it was harmless. Just a little extra in the frosting.”

I stared at her.

“What the hell does that mean, Brianna?”

She began to cry.

“I added CBD oil to the cookies I brought you. Not THC—just enough to calm Ava down. I thought she’d just get sleepy. That was the plan. I just wanted you to stop saying she was ‘high energy’ and ‘unfocused.’ I wanted you to see what it’s like when she’s calm.”

I stood up slowly.

“You drugged my daughter.”

She looked up at me, tears falling freely.

“I thought it was safe.”

“But Logan ate them instead.”

She nodded.

I walked to the door and opened it.

“I don’t care why. I want you to stay away from us.”

She didn’t argue.

She left.

And now I look at every treat twice. I trust no one blindly.
Even family.