**Diary Entry 9th May**
The day began like any other. Dawn hadnt yet broken, but the muffled sounds of London waking reached my ears. I stretched, blinking sleep from my eyes, and glanced at the man beside meWilliam. He lay on his back, one arm dangling off the bed, his face relaxed like a childs. In moments like these, I tried to forget the recent arguments, his growing distance, the late nights he blamed on work. I wanted to believe him. I wanted everything to be fine.
“Morning,” I whispered, brushing his shoulder.
He flinched, eyes flickering open. “Already?” he muttered, yawning. “Youre up early.”
“Fancy a coffee?” I smiled. “Maybe breakfast together?”
“Of course,” he said, sitting up. “Ill make it.”
I smiled wider. This was rarelately, 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 by the time I returned, the scent of fresh coffee filled the kitchen. William stood at the table, pouring the dark brew into two mugsone my favourite porcelain with blue forget-me-nots, the other chipped, always reserved for my mother-in-law, Margaret.
“Made it special,” he said, handing me mine. “Just how you like ita dash of milk, a pinch of cinnamon.”
“Thanks,” I said, but then it hit mea sharp, chemical tang beneath the coffees warmth. Bitter almonds.
I frowned. “Whats that smell?”
William glanced at the mug. “Dunno. Maybe the beans? Or the milks off?”
I inhaled again. Bitter almonds. I knew that scent. My grandmother had once told me*if it smells like bitter almonds, its cyanide*. I hadnt believed her until I read it in a chemistry textbook. Cyanide kills. And it smells exactly like this.
My pulse quickened. “Will, youre sure nothings off? Im allergic to some additives. Maybe Ill take the other mug?”
He stilled for a heartbeat. Then forced a smile. “Dont be daft. Its just coffee. Drink it before it gets cold.”
I nodded, but footsteps cut through the tension. Margaret emerged from her roomstiff-backed, sharp-eyed, a woman whod never approved of me. “Morning,” she said coolly.
“Morning, Mum,” William kissed her cheek. “Coffees ready. Heres your mug.” He handed her the empty, chipped one.
“Wheres mine?” she snapped.
“Just pouring it,” he said, reaching for the pot.
Then she did what saved my life.
She snatched *my* mug instead. “You can wait,” she said, glaring at me with pure disdain.
William froze. His eyes flickerednot with fear, not with irritation, but with something worse. *Disappointment*.
“Stop dawdling,” Margaret snapped, sipping from my cup. “Pour the damn coffee.”
He did, slow and mechanical. I sat, heart hammering, staring at the mug in her handsthe one that reeked of almonds.
“Too strong,” she grumbled. “But drinkable.”
William kept his eyes down, pushing scrambled eggs around his plate. Silent.
Ten minutes later, Margaret winced. “Stomachs off,” she muttered. “Heads spinning.”
“You alright?” I asked, fighting panic.
“Fine, just” She set the mug down. “Feels like cant breathe.”
She stoodthen swayed. William leapt up. “Mum? Whats wrong?”
“You you” Her eyes locked onto his, widening. “You meant *me*”
She collapsed.
I screamed. William shouted for an ambulance, shaking her. Paramedics arrived within minutes. One sniffed the mug. “Cyanide poisoning,” he said grimly. “High concentration. Shes comatose. Chances are slim.”
William was chalk-white. “I dont understandI just made coffee!”
“Where do you keep the beans?” the paramedic asked.
“Cupboard. But its a new bagbought it yesterday.”
They checked. No cyanide there. Someone had laced the *mug*.
Police came. Questions flew. “You were the last to handle that cup,” the detective said to William.
“Id never hurt my mother!” he shouted.
“Your wife, then?” The detective glanced at me.
I stayed silent.
Three days later, Margaret died. Cyanide destroys brain cells in minutes.
At the funeral, William looked hollow-eyed, tremblingbut not with grief. With *relief*.
Afterwards, he cornered me. “Listen,” he said, voice low. “I didnt mean to kill Mum. I meant to kill *you*.”
I wasnt surprised. “Why?”
“Because you *know*,” he hissed. “About the money. The gambling debts. The life insurance. Half a million quid if you died. Enough to start over.”
“And Margaret?”
“She suspected. Threatened to tell you.” His jaw clenched. “I didnt think shed drink it.”
I stared at himthe man Id loved for five years. “Youd have murdered me.”
“Yes,” he said. “Now get out.”
I filed for divorce. Handed the mug to police. His prints were the only ones.
He got fifteen years.
I moved to the countryside, bought a cottage by a lake. Now, I brew my own coffee. No cinnamon. No milk. And every time, I *smell* it first.
Bitter almonds arent just a scent. Theyre a warning. A voice whispering: *Danger*.
Some nights, I dream of Margaret. Not glaring. Just pitying. *”You shouldve left sooner,”* she murmurs.
I wake in a sweat, drink water, stare into the dark.
Out there, people smile across tables, say *”I love you,”* while thinking *”I wish youd disappear.”*
I dont believe in accidents anymore. Not in sudden kindness. Not in men who *”just fancy making coffee”* one morning.
I live. I breathe. I never forget.
**Epilogue**
Two years on, I run a café by the lake. *The Almond*. The sign reads: *”Coffee with soul. No bitterness.”*
Customers ask about the name.
I smile. “Just fond of almonds,” I say, pouring their cup.
No strange scents. No fear. Just hope.
But if anyone offers me coffee theyve made?
I always refuse.
Once, I chose the wrong cup.
And it saved my life.
