My Late Son Warned Me In A Dream Not To Eat My Birthday Cake. My Husband Of 35 Years Baked It Himself. Now I Know The Terrifying Reason Why.
A Trap is Set
I took pictures of every document with my phone, my heart hammering. Then I carefully put everything back exactly as I’d found it. I walked out of that office and went straight to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I sat on my bed and let myself shake, let myself feel the full weight of betrayal and terror.
My husband of 35 years wanted me dead. I couldn’t go to the police, not yet. What did I have? Some suspicious financial transactions and a bad feeling. They’d think I was a paranoid old woman. No, I needed proof—real, undeniable proof.
That night I called Clare.
“Honey,”
I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I need you to come over tomorrow alone. Don’t tell anyone, not even Emma. Can you do that?”
Clare knew something was wrong immediately.
“Mom, what’s going on?”
“I can’t explain over the phone. Please, just trust me.”
The next morning, the day before my birthday, Clare arrived at 10:00. David had gone to the store, supposedly to get groceries for tomorrow’s dinner. I showed Clare everything: the insurance policies, the financial statements, the pattern of debt and deception. I told her about the dreams.
Clare’s face went white.
“Mom, we need to call the police and tell them what? That I had dreams about my dead son? That my husband has debt?”
“That’s not evidence of attempted murder, honey. It’s barely evidence of anything.”
“So what do we do?”
I’d been thinking about this all night.
“We set a trap. Tomorrow is my birthday dinner. David’s planning something with that cake; I’m sure of it now. We need to catch him in the act.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not letting you anywhere near that cake.”
“We won’t let me eat it, but we need proof, Clare. The kind of proof that will put him away so he can never hurt anyone else.”
I grabbed her hands.
“Your brother is trying to protect me. I feel it, I know it. We’re going to get justice for him too because I don’t think his accident was an accident at all.”
That stopped Clare cold.
“What? Rachel got almost a million dollars when Michael died. She married David’s son, was set up financially for life. If Michael died, and two years later convenient car accident on a road Michael drove every day, a road he knew like the back of his hand…”
I could see the horror dawning on Clare’s face.
“David had gambling debts even then. I found old credit card statements this morning. He needed money desperately. And then his son dies and suddenly Rachel has money and she and David become so close.”
Clare started crying.
“Oh my god, Dad killed Michael.”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. And I’m going to make sure he pays for everything. What he did to Michael, what he planned to do to me, all of it.”
We spent the rest of that day planning. Clare would come to dinner as planned, bringing Emma. She’d keep Emma distracted and away from anything dangerous. I would let David serve the cake, would act like I was about to eat it but would accidentally drop my fork or need to use the bathroom—some reason to step away at the last second. Meanwhile, Clare would use the distraction to secure a sample of the cake before David could dispose of it. It was risky; it relied on split-second timing, but it was all we had.
The Birthday Dinner
That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Michael, about those dreams. Whether you believe in the supernatural or not, whether you think it was really Michael’s spirit or just a mother’s intuition manifesting in dreams, it didn’t matter. He’d warned me, he’d saved me.
The morning of my birthday, I woke up to David kissing my forehead.
“Happy Birthday, sweetheart,”
he said softly. His voice was so tender, so loving. How could this be the same man planning to kill me? How could someone fake affection so perfectly?
“Thank you,”
I managed, forcing a smile.
“Tonight’s going to be special,”
he said.
“I’ve got everything planned. Clare and Emma will be here at 6:00, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Perfect.”
He kissed me again and headed downstairs. I heard him humming in the kitchen.
I spent the day in a fog of adrenaline and dread. I kept touching my phone in my pocket where I’d saved all the evidence photos. I’d emailed them to Clare and to a draft email to my attorney, just in case something went wrong.
At 5:30 I started getting ready for dinner. I chose a blue dress that Michael had always said looked nice on me. I put on the pearl necklace he’d given me for my 50th birthday. I looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. I looked old, tired, scared.
“You can do this,”
I whispered to my reflection. For Michael, for Clare, for every woman who trusted the wrong man.
Clare arrived at 6:00 sharp with Emma. My granddaughter ran up and hugged me, completely oblivious to the danger lurking in her grandfather’s smile.
“Happy Birthday, Grandma!”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
I held her tight, this beautiful innocent child, and thought about how David would have made her an orphan, how he’d already taken her father. The rage that filled me in that moment was unlike anything I’d ever felt.
David had outdone himself. The dining room table was set beautifully. He’d made pot roast, my favorite—or at least it used to be. There were roasted vegetables, fresh bread, even a salad. It looked like a feast.
“David, this is wonderful,”
Clare said, and I could hear the strain in her voice that I hoped David would miss.
“Only the best for your mother’s birthday,”
he said warmly. He caught my eye and smiled.
“Eat up Maggie, you need to save room for cake.”
There it was. The cake. My son’s warning. The centerpiece of this nightmare.
Dinner felt like it took hours. I pushed food around my plate, forced myself to take small bites, laughed at Emma’s stories from school. David kept watching me, a slight smile on his face. He was eager, I realized. Eager for this to work, eager for me to die so he could cash in those policies and run off with Rachel to pay his debts and live whatever life they’d planned together.
Finally, dinner was over. David stood up.
“Now for the birthday cake.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. Clare shot me a look; I nodded slightly. My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it.
David emerged carrying a beautiful chocolate cake with “Happy 62nd Birthday Maggie” written in pink frosting. My favorite cake. He’d remembered, or more likely, he’d known I wouldn’t suspect my favorite cake.
He set it down in front of me and lit the candles, 62 of them covering the surface.
“Make a wish, sweetheart.”
I closed my eyes. I wished for justice. I wished for truth. I wished that Michael could finally rest knowing I was safe. Then I blew out the candles. Everyone clapped.
David cut the cake, giving me the first slice, a large piece covered in frosting. He handed me a fork.
“The birthday girl gets the first bite.”
I picked up my fork, brought it toward the cake. Clare tensed beside me, ready to act. And then I stopped. I set the fork down carefully and looked directly at David.
“You know what, I think I need to use the restroom first. All that dinner…”
I stood up, smiling apologetically. David’s face flickered just for a second, a flash of irritation or maybe disappointment, but he recovered quickly.
“Of course, take your time.”
