I Worked Three Jobs To Support My Paralyzed Mother-in-law. I Came Home Early And Found Her Dancing While My Husband Filmed Her. How Should I Get Revenge?

Secrets in the Cookie Tin

That afternoon, Kevin sent me a message saying he had a work dinner and would be back late. Helen, for her part, told me on the phone that she was going to physical therapy at a nearby rehabilitation center. I knew perfectly well that this therapy was an excuse to go play cards or gossip with some new friends from her hometown she had met at the local market. The apartment was empty and silent, almost eerily so, but this was the golden opportunity to find the missing pieces of this puzzle of betrayal.

I went into Helen’s room, the room she usually kept locked when she went out. But today, probably in her rush to go have fun, she had forgotten. The smell of menthol ointment mixed with the musty smell of an elderly person hit my nose. The room was messy with clothes thrown over a chair and pill wrappers on the floor.

I began to search the closet, lifting layers of old blankets she had brought from her town and refused to let me wash or change. My hand bumped against a hard, cold object in the deepest corner of the closet. It was a round Danish butter cookie tin, rusted with time, the kind that older people in small towns use to store threads and needles.

I pulled it out. Its weight made my heart beat faster. A bad feeling told me that inside this box were secrets darker than a simple affair. I held my breath and opened the lid.

The lid popped off and what appeared before my eyes almost made me scream in terror. Inside there were no cookies or threads, but a clump of hair, pieces of carefully clipped fingernails wrapped in red paper. Next to it was a rag doll. On the doll’s body, my date of birth was clumsily written in red ink, and it was filled with rusty pins.

I took a step back, covering my mouth to stifle a scream. I recognized those strands of light brown, slightly wavy hair. It was my hair. The nails painted in a nude color were also mine. She had been secretly collecting them from my hairbrush and the bathroom trash can all this time. What kind of witchcraft was this? In the 21st century, she still believed in these superstitious and barbaric practices to curse her daughter-in-law?

Still in shock, I saw a small black leather notebook at the bottom of the tin. I picked it up trembling and began to flip through the pages. Helen’s handwriting was clumsy and full of spelling mistakes, but the content was frighteningly clear. She meticulously noted the time I returned from work, what I ate; even my menstrual cycle was marked in red.

Day 15: Chloe came home late looking upset. I put a little of her hair in her soup. Day 18: Today is her ovulation day. Kevin has to do his job. I hope the spell works and she can’t conceive. Day 20: Amber says the baby is fine. My grandson is kicking hard. It won’t be long before we kick this wretch out of here.

As I read, a chill ran down my spine. I thought she was just a greedy and selfish old woman from a small town, but I never imagined her heart could be so evil and dark. She not only wanted my money and for her son to leave me, but she also wanted to destroy my ability to be a mother, to curse me with her dark rituals.

I sat on the cold floor clutching the notebook. I didn’t cry; I just felt a wave of disgust that reached my throat. Where was I living? In a house or a den of demons? The people I called husband and mother watched me eat, sleep, laugh, and talk every day with the intention of pushing me to my death.

I quickly took out my phone and photographed all the evidence from the cookie tin, every page of that sick notebook. Then I carefully put everything back as it was, returning the tin to the dark corner of the closet. I couldn’t alert them yet. I needed them to keep acting, to remain confident, so I could weave a bigger net and catch the whole nest of snakes.