My Mother-in-law Tried To Poison My Chowder. I’m A Pharmacist, So I Knew Exactly What She Added. I Sent The “gift” To My Cheating Husband Instead.

The Confrontation

I didn’t put on makeup.

I purposely didn’t fix my hair.

I threw on a jacket, slipped on mismatched slippers, and shoved my phone and wallet into my purse like someone in a state of shock and panic.

I opened my door and stepped into the hallway where the yellow light cast a cold glow on the floor.

Betty’s door flew open.

She rushed out, her face ashen, her hair a mess, her eyes wide as if she no longer recognized me.

“What did you do? What did you send him to eat? Don’t you know he drinks alcohol? Oh my god!”

I stood still, looking directly at her.

I didn’t argue.

I just let her talk because with her own words she was tightening the noose around her own neck.

She was crying and terrified.

And within that fear was the foul stench of guilt.

“Mom, what are you talking about? I sent chowder. Just chowder. Nathan was working late. I was afraid he was hungry. Mom, calm down. Let’s go to the hospital,”.

Betty looked at me, her lips trembling.

She seemed to want to say more but swallowed it down.

There are truths people dare not speak in a hallway because a single slip of the tongue is enough to make the world spin out of control.

On the way to the hospital, I drove with my hands stiff as wood.

Chicago at 3:00 a.m. has an emptiness that makes the turmoil in your heart even louder.

The street lights stretched into blurry streaks.

I rolled down the window, letting the cold wind hit my face to keep me alert.

I remembered my wedding night.

Nathan had held my hand and said, “Laura, I will never let you suffer,”.

I had believed him.

I had believed in a man who could hold me while I slept and plot my death in his mind.

If it weren’t for that strange, powdery scent, if I had drunk my glass of wine like every other night, if I had followed the routine they had grasped so perfectly, the person on that gurney right now would have been me.

I had just parked the car when I saw Betty had arrived before me by taxi.

She stumbled into the emergency department, her hand clutching her purse strap as if it were a lifeline.

I followed, walking quickly but not running.

I had to maintain an appearance of being both distraught and composed, like a wife who still had her dignity in the midst of a storm.

The strong smell of antiseptic, familiar to the point of pain.

White lights, waiting room chairs, the squeak of shoes on the floor, voices calling out.

The constant beeping of monitors.

I saw Betty slumped on the floor in front of the ER doors.

Her hands clasped as if in prayer, muttering, “Nathan, my son, my son,”.

I walked over and touched her shoulder.

“Mom, get up. Let’s ask the doctor,”.

Betty looked up.

In her eyes, there were tears, panic, and something like hatred.

She was about to lunge at me but then stopped herself.

I knew she was scared.

Scared I would reveal what she had done.

Scared people would ask questions.

Scared of all the staring eyes.

Most of all, she was scared of the truth.

The ER door opened.

A doctor stepped out, pulling down his mask, his face weary.

I took a step forward, my voice just shaky enough.

“Doctor, I’m Nathan’s wife. How is he?”

The doctor looked at me, his gaze a mixture of pity and seriousness.

“He has severe poisoning complicated by a reaction with alcohol. We’re working on him, but his condition is deteriorating. The family should prepare for the worst,”.

I heard the phrase “Prepare for the worst,” and my mind went blank.

I grabbed the arm of a chair to stay upright, forcing my lips to tremble like someone about to faint.

Behind me, Betty began to wail louder, as if trying to wash away her sins with tears.

“Doctor, please save him! He’s my son!”

The doctor nodded and went back inside.

And just then, from the end of the hall, another gurney was wheeled past.

On it was a woman with long hair, her face pale, her lips a purplish blue, covered to her neck with a blanket.

A nurse walked alongside, speaking quickly: “Maintain the airway, monitor blood pressure,”.

I only saw her face for a moment, but it was long enough for me to recognize her.

Not as a patient I knew from the ER, but as someone my husband knew, because I had seen that profile picture peeking out from Nathan’s phone once when he had accidentally left the screen on before quickly shutting it off.

I hadn’t paid attention then.

Now I remembered it perfectly.

Betty saw her too.

She froze as if someone had thrown cold water on her.

Her pupils contracted and her sobs caught in her throat, turning into a dry, hacking sound.

“That girl… why is she here?”

I turned to her, my voice quiet but as sharp as a thread.

“You know her, Mom?”

Betty flinched.

She looked around as if afraid someone would overhear.

“But how could you hide it?”

The hallway was full of people whose eyes were already turning curious.

And curiosity in a hospital at dawn is always followed by harsh speculation.

Betty stammered, unable to form a complete sentence.

“No, I don’t know her. I… I don’t know,”.

I nodded slightly, feigning confusion.

“I don’t know either. Nathan said he was working. So why is she here with him?”

Betty suddenly clutched her head and slumped down, her breathing ragged.

She was trapped between two pincers: on one side her son, on the other the secret she had been protecting, and in the middle was the bowl of chowder with the white powder that she herself had sprinkled in.

She wanted to blame it all on me, but she didn’t dare.

She wanted to drag me down with her, but she had no way out.

I stood there looking at her with the eyes of a daughter-in-law who had endured enough.

But deeper still, I also looked at her with the eyes of a woman who understood the fears of mothers from small towns.

Fear of losing a son, fear of losing their support, fear of the family line ending, fear of being ridiculed by the neighbors.

It was that fear that had turned her into a cruel person.