Rachel stood by the window, her mind replaying the events for the hundredth time. That evening, a wreath had arrived at their flat—real, mournful, draped with a black ribbon. Her name was etched on it, stark and unsigned. No card. Just silence and the cold gloom of the unspoken threat.
Her husband, Thomas, barely batted an eye. He shrugged, indifferent.
“Could be a mistake. Or some idiot’s idea of a joke.”
“A *mistake*? Are you serious?” Rachel stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
She knew exactly where it came from. Knew how precisely their address had been written. Knew there was only one person in their lives who’d never called her by name, who had despised her openly and in whispers—her mother-in-law.
Margaret Whitmore believed her son deserved better. A woman with model looks, a pedigree like a show dog, and preferably no family to “weigh him down.” And Rachel? Ordinary, hardworking, barely five foot two, from a working-class home—she’d sewn her own dresses since she was a girl. But she loved Thomas fiercely.
Margaret didn’t care about love. She cared about control. And when control slipped, she retaliated.
At first, it seemed harmless. Snide remarks, backhanded compliments, veiled insults. Then came the meddling—questionable “gifts,” unasked-for advice. Then, the planted lingerie in the wardrobe, as if Rachel were hiding an affair. As if in a flat where every shelf was bare, she’d dare.
Thomas dismissed it all as coincidence. Even when Rachel found a live adder in the berries Margaret had sent over, he just shook his head.
“Maybe it wandered in. The moors are close, after all…”
Rachel had locked herself in the bathroom and wept. Not from fear. From helplessness. Because worse than snakes were the people who wore kindness like a mask, rotting the heart of her family while pretending to care.
She endured. For years. Until the day she caught Thomas with someone else—right there in their kitchen. Smiling, leggy, polished.
“She came onto me!” Thomas blurted, not even bothering to cover his guilt.
Rachel didn’t scream. Just pointed to the door. And to the wreath—still unthrown away. Because messages like that aren’t discarded. They’re stains. Full stops in stories you never wanted to end.
After the divorce, Rachel moved out. He stayed with his mother. Then, a neighbour called.
“Did you hear? Your ex-mother-in-law remarried. That old childhood friend of hers…”
Rachel smirked. Not from spite, but from clarity. That house had never wanted *her* gone—just the space she occupied. Not for her son. For herself.
Now, in her new flat, she glances at the wreath—still kept, still hers—and whispers,
“Thank you. It wasn’t a curse. It was my escape.”
