For Months, I Felt Sick And Nauseous After Every Meal. “Stop Being Dramatic And Pathetic,” Dad Screamed At My Face As I Threw Up Blood. But When…
The smell of eggs and burnt toast hit me the moment I stepped into the kitchen, the kind of morning scent that should’ve felt comforting—homey even—but lately, it only made my stomach twist in dread. My dad sat at the table with his newspaper, coffee steaming beside him, his brow furrowed like always. Across from him, Diana, my new stepmother, smiled too sweetly as she stirred something thick and green in a tall blender.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, her tone syrupy enough to make my teeth ache. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”
My stomach lurched. I hadn’t eaten a full meal in days, not without it ending with me doubled over, clutching my ribs while my vision blurred and the taste of iron filled my mouth. But saying no to her was worse than the sickness itself.
I forced a weak smile. “I’m not hungry.”
Dad rustled his newspaper without looking up. “For God’s sake, Anna, eat. You’ve been acting so dramatic lately.”
“I said I’m not—” I barely got the words out before a sharp pain tore through my gut, the kind that made breathing feel impossible. I stumbled toward the sink, gagging. The world tilted and went red as I coughed up a streak of blood.
“Jesus, Anna!” Dad shot up, slamming his coffee cup down. “You’re making a mess!”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, dizzy and shaking. “Dad… something’s wrong.”
Diana was beside me in an instant, her manicured nails grazing my shoulder. “Oh, sweetie,” she cooed. “It’s probably just a bug. You’ve been under so much stress with school.” Her voice was smooth as silk, but her eyes—cold, flat, calculating—told another story.
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe anyone.
It had been months of this. The faint nausea after every meal she made, the dizziness, the chest pain, the fainting spells that had started a few weeks ago. Every time I tried to tell Dad, he rolled his eyes, said I was too emotional, too “fragile.”
“You need to toughen up,” he’d say. “Not everything’s about you.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was in my head. But then why did the sickness vanish whenever I ate food I’d packed myself? Why did it always return after dinner with her?
That morning, as I grabbed my backpack, Diana stopped me at the door. “Wait, dear,” she said, holding out a silver travel mug. “I made your smoothie. It’s good for your stomach.”
The blender from earlier. The thick green sludge.
I hesitated. “Thanks,” I said quickly, pretending to take it before slipping it into my bag.
As I stepped outside into the cold air, I could hear her whispering to Dad behind me.
“She’s becoming ungrateful,” she said.
“She’s becoming a problem,” he replied.
The words followed me all the way to school.
“Anna, you look awful.”
That was Olivia, my best friend since kindergarten. She looked at me like she was trying not to panic. “You’ve lost so much weight. Seriously, what’s going on?”
I slumped against the lockers, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think something’s wrong with me. Every time I eat at home, I get sick. Like… really sick.”
Olivia frowned. “But not when you eat at my place?”
I shook my head. “No. Never.”
Her eyes darkened with understanding. “Then it’s not you. It’s her.”
“Don’t,” I said immediately. “That’s crazy. She’s—she’s my dad’s wife.”
“Exactly,” Olivia said sharply. “The one who moved in six months ago after a three-week courtship? The one who makes all your meals now? The one who suddenly cares so much about your ‘health’? Anna, she’s poisoning you.”
I wanted to laugh, but my chest hurt too much. “Why would she do that?”
“Because your mom’s trust fund kicks in when you turn eighteen,” Olivia said flatly. “And your dad can’t touch it unless—”
“Unless I die,” I finished quietly.
We stood in silence. The bell rang, echoing through the empty hall, but neither of us moved. Olivia’s hand closed over mine. “We need proof.”
By noon, we were at County General Hospital, sitting in a small, sterile exam room while Olivia’s aunt—a nurse—drew my blood. She didn’t ask questions, just gave me a look that said she’d seen this kind of thing before.
“The results should be ready this evening,” she said. “Stay somewhere safe until then.”
The word safe lodged in my chest like a knife.
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The smell of eggs and burnt toast hit me the moment I stepped into the kitchen, the kind of morning scent that should’ve felt comforting—homey even—but lately, it only made my stomach twist in dread. My dad sat at the table with his newspaper, coffee steaming beside him, his brow furrowed like always. Across from him, Diana, my new stepmother, smiled too sweetly as she stirred something thick and green in a tall blender.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, her tone syrupy enough to make my teeth ache. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”
My stomach lurched. I hadn’t eaten a full meal in days, not without it ending with me doubled over, clutching my ribs while my vision blurred and the taste of iron filled my mouth. But saying no to her was worse than the sickness itself.
I forced a weak smile. “I’m not hungry.”
Dad rustled his newspaper without looking up. “For God’s sake, Anna, eat. You’ve been acting so dramatic lately.”
“I said I’m not—” I barely got the words out before a sharp pain tore through my gut, the kind that made breathing feel impossible. I stumbled toward the sink, gagging. The world tilted and went red as I coughed up a streak of blood.
“Jesus, Anna!” Dad shot up, slamming his coffee cup down. “You’re making a mess!”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, dizzy and shaking. “Dad… something’s wrong.”
Diana was beside me in an instant, her manicured nails grazing my shoulder. “Oh, sweetie,” she cooed. “It’s probably just a bug. You’ve been under so much stress with school.” Her voice was smooth as silk, but her eyes—cold, flat, calculating—told another story.
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe anyone.
It had been months of this. The faint nausea after every meal she made, the dizziness, the chest pain, the fainting spells that had started a few weeks ago. Every time I tried to tell Dad, he rolled his eyes, said I was too emotional, too “fragile.”
“You need to toughen up,” he’d say. “Not everything’s about you.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was in my head. But then why did the sickness vanish whenever I ate food I’d packed myself? Why did it always return after dinner with her?
That morning, as I grabbed my backpack, Diana stopped me at the door. “Wait, dear,” she said, holding out a silver travel mug. “I made your smoothie. It’s good for your stomach.”
The blender from earlier. The thick green sludge.
I hesitated. “Thanks,” I said quickly, pretending to take it before slipping it into my bag.
As I stepped outside into the cold air, I could hear her whispering to Dad behind me.
“She’s becoming ungrateful,” she said.
“She’s becoming a problem,” he replied.
The words followed me all the way to school.
“Anna, you look awful.”
That was Olivia, my best friend since kindergarten. She looked at me like she was trying not to panic. “You’ve lost so much weight. Seriously, what’s going on?”
I slumped against the lockers, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think something’s wrong with me. Every time I eat at home, I get sick. Like… really sick.”
Olivia frowned. “But not when you eat at my place?”
I shook my head. “No. Never.”
Her eyes darkened with understanding. “Then it’s not you. It’s her.”
“Don’t,” I said immediately. “That’s crazy. She’s—she’s my dad’s wife.”
“Exactly,” Olivia said sharply. “The one who moved in six months ago after a three-week courtship? The one who makes all your meals now? The one who suddenly cares so much about your ‘health’? Anna, she’s poisoning you.”
I wanted to laugh, but my chest hurt too much. “Why would she do that?”
“Because your mom’s trust fund kicks in when you turn eighteen,” Olivia said flatly. “And your dad can’t touch it unless—”
“Unless I die,” I finished quietly.
We stood in silence. The bell rang, echoing through the empty hall, but neither of us moved. Olivia’s hand closed over mine. “We need proof.”
By noon, we were at County General Hospital, sitting in a small, sterile exam room while Olivia’s aunt—a nurse—drew my blood. She didn’t ask questions, just gave me a look that said she’d seen this kind of thing before.
“The results should be ready this evening,” she said. “Stay somewhere safe until then.”
The word safe lodged in my chest like a knife.
That night, Olivia’s family insisted I stay over. Her mom made spaghetti and garlic bread, simple comfort food that smelled like everything good in the world. I ate slowly, waiting for the pain, the dizziness, the blood—but it never came.
I almost cried with relief.
Then my phone buzzed.
Dad: “Diana’s worried about you. Come home. She made pot roast.”
Diana: “Family dinner is important, sweet girl. Don’t disappoint your father.”
I showed Olivia the messages. “If she’s really doing it,” I said, “then she knows I’m getting close.”
Olivia’s face went pale. “Then we can’t let you go home.”
The next morning, the call came. Olivia’s aunt’s voice trembled when she spoke.
“Anna, the doctor wants to see you right away. Bring your friend.”
We went straight to the hospital. Dr. Martinez, head of toxicology, met us in a private room. His expression was grim.
“Anna,” he said, “your bloodwork shows high levels of thallium.”
My mind went blank. “What is that?”
“A heavy metal. Extremely toxic. It’s sometimes called the ‘poisoner’s poison’ because it’s tasteless and odorless. The symptoms—nausea, weakness, hair loss, nerve pain—can mimic other illnesses.”
Thallium. The word felt unreal, like something from a crime documentary, not my life.
“How much are we talking?” Olivia asked, her voice shaking.
Dr. Martinez looked at me with pity. “Enough to kill you within weeks if it continued.”
Before I could respond, the door opened. A tall woman with sharp eyes and a badge stepped in.
“I’m Detective Sarah Torres, Metro PD,” she said. “The hospital notified us. We’ll need to ask you some questions.”
And just like that, my life became a crime scene.
For the next hour, I told them everything—how the sickness began right after Diana moved in, how my dad refused to believe me, how every symptom vanished when I stopped eating her food. Detective Torres listened in silence, occasionally glancing at Olivia’s notes, her jaw tightening with each detail.
When I finished, she nodded slowly. “We’ve seen cases like this. Gradual poisoning, inheritance motives, gaslighting the victim. You’re lucky you came in when you did.”
Then my phone rang. Dad.
Detective Torres gestured. “Answer it. Speaker.”
I swallowed hard and pressed accept.
“Anna,” Dad’s voice boomed, angry. “What the hell are you doing at the hospital? Diana’s been cooking all day and you’re being unbelievably rude.”
“I’m getting blood tests,” I said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. This attention-seeking has to stop! Diana was right—you’re jealous of her.”
“Jealous?” My voice cracked. “Of the woman who’s poisoning me?”
Silence. Then I heard Diana’s voice faintly in the background. “Robert, hang up. They can’t prove anything.”
I stared at the phone, my pulse racing. “They already did,” I said. “There’s thallium in my blood. The police are here.”
Detective Torres took the phone. “Mr. Matthews, this is Detective Torres. Stay where you are. We’re sending officers to your address immediately.”
She hung up, turned to me, and said quietly, “You’re safe now, Anna.”
But as she spoke, I saw something flicker in her eyes—an uncertainty. The kind you see in people who’ve been doing this too long to promise happy endings.
“Stay at the hospital tonight,” she said. “We’ll post officers outside your door.”
Hours later, as the IV dripped slowly into my arm, I stared at the white ceiling and tried to breathe. Olivia sat beside me, her hand wrapped around mine.
“You’re okay,” she whispered. “They’ve got her.”
I wanted to believe her. But part of me—the part that still remembered my father’s face as he told me to stop being dramatic—knew this was far from over.
Outside the room, I could hear Detective Torres on the phone.
“Search the kitchen first,” she said. “Focus on her teas and protein powders. Check the smoothie mug by the sink. Something tells me we’ll find exactly what we’re looking for.”
I closed my eyes and felt the cold press of reality settle deep in my bones.
Diana wasn’t just my stepmother. She was a murderer in pearls.
And my father—the man who was supposed to protect me—had let her in.
I woke up to the quiet hum of hospital machines and the faint beeping of a monitor near my bed. For a moment, I didn’t remember where I was. Then the ache in my veins reminded me—the IV, the blood tests, the word thallium. Poison. My stepmother had been poisoning me.
The realization didn’t feel real, not yet. It felt like I’d stepped into someone else’s nightmare. The kind you wake up from sweating, relieved it was only a dream. Except this one didn’t fade when I opened my eyes.
Outside my room, I heard low voices. When I turned my head, I saw Detective Torres through the glass window, speaking with two uniformed officers. Her face was unreadable, but the way she held her file against her chest told me it wasn’t good news.
Olivia stirred in the chair beside me, wrapped in a blanket she’d brought from home. “Hey,” she whispered. “You’re awake.”
I nodded, my throat dry. “Did they find anything?”
She hesitated, glancing at the door before answering. “They’re still searching the house. But they found something in the kitchen already. I heard one of the officers say your smoothie mug tested positive for thallium.”
My stomach twisted. The same mug Diana had handed me yesterday morning, smiling like she was offering love in a cup.
Just then, the door opened and Detective Torres stepped in. “Morning, Anna,” she said, her tone calm but focused. “How are you feeling?”
I shrugged weakly. “Like I swallowed a bomb.”
“That’s not far off,” she said, managing a grim smile. “We’ve confirmed it—there was thallium residue in your smoothie and in multiple food containers in your kitchen. We also found small packets of powdered poison hidden inside tins labeled ‘herbal tea blends.’”
I closed my eyes, nausea rising again. “So it’s true.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And there’s more. We found a notebook in Diana’s dresser. It contained dosage notes, dates, and observations about your symptoms. She was tracking your decline like it was an experiment.”
Olivia gasped beside me. I didn’t react. I couldn’t. It was like I was hearing a story about some other girl—one too naive to notice the monster living in her own home.
“What about my dad?” I asked. The words felt heavy in my mouth.
Torres paused. “He’s in custody. We’re questioning him now. We haven’t found direct evidence he participated, but his neglect is serious. He ignored every sign.”
I turned my face away. “He called me dramatic.”
Torres exhaled softly. “Abusers thrive when people dismiss the truth. But you survived, Anna. You got help in time. That’s what matters now.”
Her words should’ve comforted me, but they didn’t. Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t over.
By evening, I was allowed to sit up and eat. The nurse brought me soup—plain broth and soft noodles. It was the first thing I’d eaten without fear in months, and I cried halfway through the bowl. Olivia reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
Her phone buzzed, and she looked down, then froze. “Oh my God,” she whispered, turning the screen toward me.
It was a text from our neighbor, Mrs. Kelly.
“Police everywhere. They caught Diana trying to run. She was at the end of the street when they tackled her.”
My spoon clattered against the bowl. For a long moment, I didn’t breathe.
“She tried to run?” I finally said.
Olivia nodded, eyes wide. “She must’ve realized they were coming.”
Torres entered a few minutes later, her expression confirming it. “She’s in custody,” she said simply. “Tried to flee in your father’s car. We have her, Anna.”
I wanted to feel relief. I wanted to cry, to scream, to laugh. But all I felt was tired. Bone-deep, hollow tired.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now,” Torres said, taking a seat, “we dig. We build the case. And, Anna… we also reopened your mother’s file.”
I stared at her. “My mother?”
She nodded. “Diana had multiple internet searches about your mother’s symptoms before her death. We think this may go back further than anyone realized.”
I felt my pulse thundering in my ears. “You think she killed my mom?”
“We don’t know yet,” Torres said. “But we’re going to find out.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The hospital felt too quiet, too sterile, too detached from the storm outside. Every sound made me flinch—the squeak of shoes in the hallway, the hiss of an oxygen tank.
When I finally dozed off, I dreamed I was standing in my old kitchen again. The lights were dim, the smell of Diana’s perfume thick in the air. She stood by the counter, stirring her tea, her smile calm and knowing.
“Drink up, sweetheart,” she said. “It’s good for you.”
When I looked down, I saw blood swirling in the mug instead of tea.
I woke up screaming.
The nurse rushed in, checked my vitals, whispered soft reassurances. But I couldn’t shake the image of Diana’s face—the quiet satisfaction behind her eyes.
Two days later, Detective Torres returned, holding a folder thick with photographs and printed documents. “We’ve finished the search,” she said. “I think you deserve to see what we found.”
I hesitated, then nodded.
She spread the photos across the table. Packets labeled “Herbal Vitality Mix.” Bottles of protein powder with tiny puncture marks near the seal. A diary page covered in neat cursive writing:
“Increase dosage after Tuesday. Weakness setting in. Target still mobile but easily fatigued.”
Target. She’d called me target. Not stepdaughter. Not Anna.
Torres flipped to another photo—an image of a handwritten list titled Inheritance Timeline. Beneath it, my birthday circled in red ink. Next to it, the words: Final dosage. Permanent solution.
I couldn’t breathe.
“She planned to kill you on your eighteenth birthday,” Torres said quietly. “We think she wanted it to look like a natural collapse—malnutrition or stress-related illness. The trust fund would’ve transferred to your father, and with no suspicion, Diana would have had access through him.”
My body felt cold all over.
“What about my dad?” I asked again.
Torres’s voice softened. “He’s being charged with criminal neglect. There’s no evidence he knew about the poison, but he ignored every red flag. The DA doesn’t think he’ll walk away without time served.”
I didn’t respond. What could I say? That the man who once tucked me in at night, who promised to protect me, had looked me in the eye while I vomited blood and told me to stop being dramatic?
Torres placed a hand on my shoulder. “You’re safe now. You’ll need treatment for a while, but you’re going to recover. You’re a survivor, Anna.”
I nodded, but my mind was somewhere else—back in the kitchen, hearing Diana’s laughter as she told Dad how overreactive I was. Remembering the way he believed her.
That evening, I was discharged from the hospital into Olivia’s care. Her mother—Mrs. Parker, a family lawyer—welcomed me into their home like I was her own daughter. She even set up the guest room with fresh sheets and lavender-scented candles.
“This is your home now,” she said gently. “Until you’re ready to stand on your own.”
It was the first time in months that I slept through the night.
The next morning, my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, but I knew the voice the instant I answered.
“Anna?” My father’s voice trembled. “Princess, I—I don’t know what to say.”
I froze. “Don’t call me that.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know. God, if I’d known—”
“But you did know,” I interrupted. My voice was low, shaking with fury I didn’t even realize I’d been holding. “You saw me getting sick. You heard me scream. You chose not to believe me.”
He started crying. “I failed you, I know that. But Diana—she fooled me too. She—”
“She didn’t fool you, Dad,” I said, my voice cold. “She just told you what you wanted to hear.”
There was silence on the other end. Then, softly, “Can you ever forgive me?”
I closed my eyes. “Maybe one day. But not today.”
And I hung up.
Weeks passed. The investigation stretched on, uncovering one horror after another. Forensics confirmed that traces of thallium were also found in sealed spice jars and Diana’s imported tea blends—places no one would think to check.
The most shocking discovery came a month later. Detective Torres visited again, her expression heavier than before.
“Anna,” she said, “we have evidence connecting Diana to your mother’s death.”
My heart stopped. “What kind of evidence?”
Torres slid a file across the table. Inside were toxicology reports from my mother’s autopsy—reports that had been filed and ignored because no one suspected foul play. The symptoms matched: hair loss, nerve damage, vomiting.
“Your mother’s case was ruled accidental poisoning at the time,” Torres said. “But with the new information, it’s clear it wasn’t an accident.”
My voice was barely a whisper. “She killed my mom.”
Torres nodded slowly. “Yes. And she was planning to kill you the same way.”
I pressed my hands to my face, the tears finally coming. Not the sharp, panicked kind I’d shed before, but deep, aching sobs that felt like they’d been waiting for years.
When I could finally speak again, I whispered, “Why? Why us?”
Torres’s eyes were full of pity. “Because your mother’s trust fund made your family a target. Diana studied your life for months before approaching your father. She knew everything.”
The walls seemed to close in around me. All the lies, the fake smiles, the tea, the kindness—it had all been part of her plan.
And I had almost died believing she cared.
That night, I sat alone in the Parker family’s backyard, staring at the stars. The air smelled of pine and rain. Olivia joined me quietly, sitting cross-legged beside me.
“You did it,” she said softly. “You survived.”
“Barely,” I whispered.
“But you did,” she repeated. “You’re alive, Anna. That’s what matters.”
I nodded, though a part of me still felt hollow. “It doesn’t feel over.”
“It’s not,” she admitted. “But it will be. And when it is, you’ll get to decide who you are after this.”
Her words settled in the air like a promise.
Because for the first time, I realized surviving wasn’t enough.
I needed to understand. To fight. To reclaim my life from the people who tried to destroy it.
The courthouse smelled faintly of lemon polish and paper—sharp, sterile, impersonal. I sat in the front row of the gallery, my palms pressed together in my lap, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth. It was surreal to see Diana sitting just a few yards away, her wrists cuffed, her hair tied neatly behind her head as if she were attending a charity luncheon instead of standing trial for attempted murder.
She didn’t look at me. Not once.
The prosecution began by laying out everything Detective Torres and her team had uncovered: the thallium residue found in my smoothie mug, the hidden packets of powder disguised as tea, the notebook documenting my symptoms, and the search history that tied her to my mother’s death three years ago. Every piece of evidence was another nail in the coffin of the woman who had once kissed my forehead and called me “sweetheart.”
When the toxicologist took the stand, I listened in silence, my stomach twisting with each technical detail. The words blurred together—heavy metal poisoning, prolonged exposure, dosage escalation, lethal threshold. It was all clinical, detached. But I could feel every word echoing through my body, through every day I’d spent clutching the sink, begging my father to believe me.
Then the prosecutor projected a photo onto the courtroom screen—me, six months ago, smiling on my seventeenth birthday, next to my dad and Diana. I remembered that night vividly. The cake had been chocolate, my favorite. Diana had insisted on baking it herself.
Two days later, I’d vomited until I fainted.
“She used thallium in small, cumulative doses,” the prosecutor said, turning to the jury. “Not enough to kill her victim immediately, but enough to mimic a chronic illness—allowing the defendant to feign concern while concealing her intent.”
Someone behind me gasped quietly. I didn’t turn around.
Then it was time for the defense. Diana’s attorney stood, his voice smooth, confident. “My client denies all allegations. There is no direct evidence placing the poison in the victim’s food. This could have been accidental contamination, or even a mistake in handling household chemicals.”
“Accidental?” I whispered under my breath. My hands clenched tighter.
The lawyer went on. “Furthermore, Mrs. Matthews cared deeply for Anna. She acted as a mother figure during a difficult transition. There is no motive.”
The prosecutor rose immediately. “The motive,” she said, her tone cutting through the air, “is greed. Mrs. Matthews stood to gain control of a multimillion-dollar trust fund if Anna Matthews died before her eighteenth birthday. Her diary outlines this timeline in chilling detail.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom.
I stared at Diana. For a brief second, our eyes met. Hers were calm, almost curious, like she was observing me from behind glass. Then her lips curved slightly—not into a smile, but into something colder. A smirk.
It was the look of someone who believed she would always win.
The trial stretched for days. I attended every one, even when the doctors said I shouldn’t. Each witness’s testimony chipped away at the version of my life I’d once thought was real. My father’s statement was the hardest to hear.
He took the stand pale and trembling, his hands shaking as he adjusted the microphone. He didn’t look at me, not at first.
“Mr. Matthews,” the prosecutor began, “when did you first notice your daughter’s symptoms?”
“Early spring,” he said hoarsely. “She started getting sick after meals. I thought it was stress. I didn’t—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t think it could be something like this.”
“You accused her of being dramatic, didn’t you?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Did you ever consider that your wife might have been responsible?”
He hesitated, eyes glistening. “No. I trusted her. She was kind to me after my first wife died. She helped me through grief. I didn’t see what she was doing.”
“Even when your daughter was vomiting blood?”
He broke then. Tears rolled down his face. “I thought I was protecting her by denying it. I told myself she was overreacting because it was easier than believing the truth.”
The prosecutor nodded slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Matthews. No further questions.”
When he stepped down, he finally looked at me. His face was ruined with guilt. I wanted to hate him, but all I felt was emptiness.
Because hatred meant caring, and I was too tired to care anymore.
That night, Olivia stayed over again. We sat in her living room, the soft hum of the TV filling the silence. She handed me a mug of tea—chamomile, safe, familiar—and I wrapped my fingers around it just to feel something warm.
“She’s going to prison,” Olivia said quietly. “The evidence is too strong.”
“I know.”
“And your dad—he’s getting sentenced for neglect. Five years, maybe less with good behavior.”
I nodded. The news should’ve felt like closure, but it didn’t. It felt like the end of a chapter I hadn’t written but was forced to live.
“What are you going to do after this?” Olivia asked gently.
I thought about it. “I want to study toxicology,” I said. “Or forensic science. I want to understand what she did—how she did it—so I can stop people like her.”
Olivia smiled faintly. “That sounds like something your mom would’ve been proud of.”
I looked toward the window, at the reflection of two girls who’d survived something no one should ever have to. “I hope so.”
Three weeks later, I sat in the courtroom again for sentencing. The air was tense, heavy with expectation. When the judge read out the verdict—guilty on all counts: attempted murder, premeditated poisoning, and first-degree homicide in the death of Mary Matthews—a shiver ran down my spine.
Diana didn’t flinch. Not when the judge said twenty-five years to life. Not when the bailiffs stepped forward to escort her away.
She finally turned to me, her eyes meeting mine one last time. “You should thank me,” she said, her voice low but steady. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be weak. I made you strong.”
The bailiff pulled her back, but I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. Because for once, she was right in a twisted way. I was stronger. But not because of her poison—because I’d survived it.
After the trial, I went home for the first time in almost a year. The house was silent, untouched. Dust floated through the air like ghosts. The kitchen felt smaller than I remembered. The tea tins were gone, replaced with emptiness.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the place where she used to stand every morning, pretending to care. Then I opened the window wide, letting sunlight flood in, and whispered, “You don’t live here anymore.”
It wasn’t about her. It was about me—finally reclaiming the space she had turned into a prison.
Later that week, I packed the last of my things and moved into a small apartment near the university. Olivia helped me decorate, hanging fairy lights and unpacking boxes while I set up a framed photo of my mom on the desk.
When we finished, she looked around and smiled. “It feels like you,” she said.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “It finally does.”
I walked to the kitchen and filled a pot with water. As it began to boil, I took out a small jar of loose chamomile leaves—real ones this time—and made tea. The scent filled the room, warm and safe.
When I took the first sip, I closed my eyes and breathed.
No fear. No pain. Just peace.
Months later, I sat under the cherry trees on campus, writing in my journal between classes. A gentle breeze carried the scent of spring.
Dear Mom, I wrote, I did it. I survived. I found the truth you never got to tell. I’m studying forensics now—learning how to catch monsters who hide behind smiles. I still miss you every day, but I think I finally understand what you meant when you said strength doesn’t come from fighting back. It comes from refusing to give up.
A shadow fell across the page. Olivia sat down beside me with two cups of coffee. “You okay?” she asked.
I smiled. “Yeah. For the first time in a long time, I think I am.”
She handed me the cup, then leaned back against the tree. “To survival,” she said softly.
“To truth,” I replied, raising my cup. “No matter how bitter it tastes.”
The wind rustled through the branches, scattering pink petals across the grass. They landed on my open notebook, on the page where I’d written the words I needed to believe more than anything:
I’m free.
