The morning began like any other. Outside the window, dawn had yet to break, but the muffled sounds of the waking city drifted in. I opened my eyes, stretched, and glanced at my husband, Alex, asleep beside me. He lay on his back, one hand dangling off the bed, his face relaxed like a childs. In moments like these, I tried not to dwell on our recent arguments, his strange detachment, or how hed started coming home late from work, muttering, “Everythings fine, just busy.” I wanted to believe him. I wanted everything to be alright.
“Good morning,” I whispered, touching his shoulder.
He jolted awake, blinking.
“Already?” he mumbled, yawning. “Youre up early.”
“I fancy coffee,” I smiled. “Maybe we could have breakfast together?”
“Of course,” he nodded, sitting up. “Ill make it.”
I smiled. It was rare for him to show such care lately. Hed barely lifted a finger at home, and Id chalked it up to exhaustion. But today, he seemed different. Too attentive. Too deliberate.
I showered, and when I returned, the kitchen smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Alex stood at the table, pouring the dark liquid into two cups. Onemy favourite porcelain with blue flowershe filled. The other, chipped and always used by my mother-in-law, remained empty.
“Made it special for you,” he said, handing me mine. “Just how you like ita dash of milk and cinnamon.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, but then my nose caught a strange scent. Not coffee. Something sharp, chemical with a hint of bitter almonds.
I frowned.
“Whats that smell? From the coffee?”
Alex glanced at the cup too quickly.
“Dunno. Maybe the new roast? Or the milks off?”
I sniffed again. Bitter almonds. I knew that smell. My grandmother once told me: if something smells like bitter almonds, its cyanide. I hadnt believed her until I read it in a chemistry textbook. Cyanide has that distinct scent. And its deadly.
My heart hammered.
“Alex, are you sure you didnt mix something up?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. “Im allergic to some additives. Maybe Ill take the other cup?”
He froze for a second. Then smiled.
“Dont be daft, its just coffee. Drink it before it gets cold.”
I nodded, but footsteps sounded in the hall. My mother-in-law, Margaret, emerged from her room. Stern, sharp-eyed, she never missed a thing. Wed never gotten along. She thought I was “not good enough” for her son, that I was “too plain,” that “women like me dont last in this family.”
“Morning,” she said curtly, approaching the table.
“Mum, morning,” Alex kissed her cheek. “Made coffee. Heres your cup.”
He handed her the empty, chipped one.
“Wheres my coffee?” she frowned.
“Just pouring it now,” he said, reaching for the pot.
Then she did what saved my life.
She stood abruptly, snatched my cup, and said,
“You can wait.”
She glared at me with pure hatred.
Alex went still. His eyes widened for a split second. He looked at meand in that gaze, I saw something horrifying. Not fear. Not irritation. Disgust.
“Stop dawdling,” Margaret snapped, sipping from my cup. “Pour the coffee, dont just stand there gormless.”
Alex slowly filled my empty cup.
I sat. My heart pounded. I couldnt look away from the cup in Margarets hands. The one that smelled of bitter almonds.
“Too strong,” she muttered. “But drinkable.”
I watched Alex. He sat, eyes down, prodding his omelette. Not a word. Not a glance. Not a smile.
Ten minutes later, Margaret grimaced.
“Somethings not right” she mumbled. “My heads spinning.”
“Are you unwell?” I asked, fighting panic.
“Yes a bit” She set the cup down. “Feels like cant breathe.”
She stood, swayed. Alex leapt up.
“Mum! Whats wrong?”
“You you” She stared at him, eyes wide. “You wanted me”
Then she collapsed.
I screamed. Alex rushed to her, calling an ambulance, shaking her shoulders. I stood frozen. It all happened too fast. But one thing was clear: hed meant to kill me. And she shed taken my place.
Twenty minutes later, paramedics arrived. One sniffed the cup.
“Cyanide poisoning,” he said. “High concentration. Shes comatose. Chances are slim.”
Alex stood pale, trembling.
“I dont know how this happened I just made coffee”
“Where do you keep the coffee?” the paramedic asked.
“In the cupboard but its new, bought yesterday”
“Show me.”
We went to the kitchen. The paramedic opened the tin, sniffed.
“No cyanide here. So someone put it in the cup or the water.”
Police arrived half an hour later. The questioning began.
“You were the last to handle that cup,” the detective said, eyeing Alex. “You poured the coffee.”
“I didnt do anything!” he shouted. “I love my mother!”
“And your wife?” the detective asked, glancing at me.
I stayed silent.
Later, when police took Alex in, I was alone in the house. The cup still sat on the counter. That same one. I picked it up. A thin white film coated the bottom. I didnt wash it. I bagged it, hid it in a drawer.
Three days later, Margaret died. The doctors said it was unsurvivable. Cyanide had destroyed her brain cells in minutes.
At the funeral, Alex was pale, eyes swollen. He carried himself like a guilty man. But I didnt see grief in his eyes. I saw relief.
Afterward, he approached me.
“Listen,” he said, “I know what you think. But I didnt kill Mum. I wanted” He hesitated, then whispered, “I wanted to kill you.”
I wasnt surprised. I just nodded.
“Why?”
“Because you know,” he said. “About the money. The insurance. My debts. You know I gambled, lost everything. If you left, youd take half the flat. If you died Id get the insurance. Half a million pounds. Enough to start over.”
“And your mother?”
“She suspected. Read my messages. Threatened to tell you. I wanted you gone but I didnt expect her to drink it.”
I stared at him. At the man Id loved for five years. The one Id built dreams with.
“Youd have killed me,” I said.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I didnt want Mum to”
“Go,” I said. “Get out of my house. Dont come back.”
He left. I called a solicitor. Filed for divorce. Gave the cup to the police. Forensics confirmed: traces of potassium cyanide. Only his fingerprints.
A month later, he was arrested. The trial lasted three weeks. He didnt deny wanting me dead. But claimed he never meant to kill his mother. The court considered it mitigation. Fifteen years in prison.
I moved towns. Rented a small flat by a lake. Bought a coffee machine. Now, I make my own. Only black. No milk. No cinnamon. And every time, before I drink, I inhale deeply.
Because bitter almonds arent just a smell. Theyre a warning. The voice of instinct saying, “Careful. Death is here.”
Im not afraid. Just cautious.
Sometimes, Margaret visits my dreams. She stands in the doorway, holding that cup, staring at me. Not with hatred. With pity. And she whispers:
“You shouldve left sooner.”
I wake in a sweat. Get up. Drink water. Stare out the window. Darkness. Silence.
But I know: somewhere beyond that quiet are people who smile at you over breakfast, say “I love you,” while thinking, “I wish youd disappear.”
And I dont believe in coincidences anymore. Not in the smell of coffee. Not in love that turns cold overnight. Not in husbands who suddenly brew coffee in the morning.
I live. I breathe. I move forward.
But Ill never forget the morning bitter almonds saved my life.
Epilogue
Two years later.
I opened a little café by the lake. Called it “Almond.” The sign reads: “Coffee with soul. No bitterness.”
Customers ask about the name.
I smile.
“Just fond of almonds,” I say.
And pour them a fresh cup.
No scent.
No fear.
Just hope.
But if anyone offers me coffee they didnt brew themselvesI always refuse.
Because once, I chose the wrong cup.
And it saved my life.
