My Husband Gifted Me A Silk Dress That Nearly Killed His Sister. He Blamed Me For Her “Allergy,” But I Found Drugs In Her Tea. What Is He Trying To Hide?

Love, now that I think about it, seems ridiculous. In the days following that confrontation, Matthew seemed to sink into his own torment.

He was no longer harsh or coldly hateful; instead there was a heavy silence, a pathetic avoidance. He didn’t dare look me in the eye.

Whenever we accidentally crossed paths, he would quickly look away. He started coming home later, and when he did, he would retreat to his study until late at night.

Perhaps he was running away. He was running from my gaze and running from his own guilt.

My mother-in-law, however, was not like that. After Matthew confessed everything, she no longer had reason to torment me openly.

But her hatred for me transformed into something different, more subtle and persistent. She no longer yelled at me, but every word she said was laced with venom. “That’s what being a daughter-in-law is like. You make a huge fuss over a little thing and won’t give the family any peace.” “Look at this house: a sick daughter, a daughter-in-law who only knows how to cause trouble.”

She said these things deliberately when I was nearby, like invisible needles stabbing into my still open wound. But I no longer cried.

The immense pain had hardened my heart. Instead, in the silence and solitude, my mind became strangely clear and lucid.

I began to connect all the dots, to analyze every word, every detail of the story Matthew had told. And the more I thought, the more cracks and unexplained contradictions I found.

First: Clara’s reaction. Matthew said it was due to the psychological trauma of the curse.

I could understand the fear, the screams, even the hallucinations. But the convulsions and the foaming at the mouth?

Those are symptoms of a physical illness. They can’t be just the product of psychology.

They are more like a bodily reaction to a toxin or an induced epileptic seizure. Could it be that Clara’s illness wasn’t just trauma, but something more tangible?

Second: the strange herbal tea that my mother-in-law prepared for Clara everyday. If it was just a tranquilizer to help her sleep, why did she have to do it so secretly and carefully?

Why did she never tell me what it was? I remembered the pungent smell of the infusion.

It didn’t resemble any calming tea I knew. I took out the herb dregs I had hidden and searched online for medicinal plants, trying to compare the shape and smell.

But it was futile. It was a mixture of too many plants I couldn’t identify.

And finally: the unknown man who called me. His words, “the punishment of the past,” didn’t sound like he was referring to a superstition.

It seemed more like an allusion to a sentence, a legal consequence. If Clara was just a 16-year-old girl who caused an accident out of panic, why use a word as heavy as punishment?

The cracks in Matthew’s story were growing wider, turning the truth he had just revealed into an even more elaborate and deceptive farce. I realized he might have told a part of the truth, but only a small part used to cover up another much more horrible truth.

This family wasn’t just hiding a tragedy; they were staging a play, and Clara was the unwitting lead actress. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

I knew Matthew would never tell me the whole truth, and my mother-in-law even less so. I had to find the answers myself.

I started with the newspaper clippings. They listed the victim’s name: Lucy Alvarez, a student at the School of Education.

I decided to go to that university. I hoped to find some information about the unfortunate girl’s friends or family.

Maybe they could tell me something my husband’s family was trying to hide. I made an excuse that I was going to visit my family for a few days so I could leave freely.

Matthew didn’t object. He just nodded silently; perhaps he also wanted some space to avoid me.

Before I left, I paused at the door and looked back at the house. It was no longer a home.

It looked like a giant cage that imprisoned not only Clara, but also guilty secrets. And I—a wife, a daughter-in-law—now felt like an amateur detective embarking on a dangerous investigation, not knowing what awaited me.

I only knew one thing: I would not stop until the last veil of deceit was lifted. Leaving that suffocating house, I felt like a prisoner finally breathing fresh air.

But that freedom came with a heavy anxiety. I didn’t go to my parents’ house; I didn’t want to involve my family in this mess.

Instead, I rented a small, simple room near downtown New York City, using it as a base for my own investigation. The next morning I went to Columbia University.

Ten years is a long time. Everything had changed: new buildings, young students’ faces, no trace of the past.

I wandered around the campus, feeling lost and helpless about where to start. I decided to go to the student records office, hoping to find old files.

I made up a story that I was an old classmate of Lucy’s, that we had lost touch, and that I now wanted to find information to visit her family. The young clerk looked at me suspiciously.

But perhaps seeing the sincerity in my words, she agreed to help. After rummaging through a dusty archive, she pulled out a yellowed file. “Here is the information for student Lucy Alvarez. But she passed away in an accident a long time ago.”

I tried to contain my emotion; my voice trembled. “I know. Could you give me her family’s address or any contact information for her relatives?”

The clerk shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Due to regulations, we cannot disclose students’ personal information.” “Besides, after Lucy’s passing, the family moved and the university also lost contact.”

I felt devastated. The only lead I had ended in a dead end.

I left the records office and wandered aimlessly around the campus. The wind blew gently, carrying the laughter of students, which only accentuated my loneliness.

I sat on a stone bench under the shade of a tree, my mind blank. Would all my efforts end here?

Would I have to return to that house and accept living in deceit and torment for the rest of my life? Just as I was sinking into despair, a figure quietly sat down next to me.

I didn’t pay attention, absorbed in my own thoughts, until that person spoke with a deep, hoarse voice. It was the same voice I had heard on the phone. “You’re looking for Lucy, aren’t you?”

I looked up sharply. The man sitting next to me was in his late 50s with graying hair and a weathered face marked by the wrinkles of time.

But his eyes—his eyes were deep and held an infinite sadness. I recognized him, though I had never seen him before.

His melancholic appearance and his distinctive voice were unmistakable. He was the man who had called me.

Frightened, I tried to get up to leave, but he held my arm. His hand was thin but firm. “Don’t be afraid, young lady. I mean you no harm.” “I’ve been following you since you entered this university.”

I stammered: “Who… who are you? Why are you following me? Why did you call me?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He looked into the distance, as if his gaze pierced through space and time, returning to a distant memory.

Then slowly he said, each word like a heavy stone dropping into a calm lake: “I am her father. I am Lucy Alvarez’s father.”

My world stopped. I sat frozen, unable to utter a word.