**Diary Entry**
The morning began like any other. Outside, dawn hadnt yet broken, but the muted hum of the waking city drifted through the window. I rubbed my eyes, stretched, and glanced at my husband, Thomas, asleep beside me. He lay on his back, one arm dangling off the bed, his face relaxed like a childs. In moments like these, I tried not to think about the recent arguments, his strange detachment, the way hed started coming home late, muttering, *”Works just busy, thats all.”* I wanted to believe him. I wanted everything to be alright.
*”Good morning,”* I whispered, touching his shoulder.
He flinched, blinking awake.
*”Already?”* he mumbled, yawning. *”Youre up early.”*
*”Fancy some coffee?”* I smiled. *”Maybe breakfast together?”*
*”Sure,”* he nodded, sitting up. *”Ill make it.”*
I smiled again. This was rarelately, hed barely lifted a finger around the house. But today, he seemed different. Too attentive. Too deliberate.
I showered, and when I returned, the kitchen smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Thomas stood at the table, pouring dark liquid into two mugsone, my favourite porcelain cup with blue forget-me-nots, and the other, a chipped one his mother always used.
*”Made it special for you,”* he said, handing me mine. *”Just how you like ita dash of milk and cinnamon.”*
*”Thanks,”* I said, but then I caught ita sharp, chemical scent beneath the coffee. Bitter almonds.
My stomach twisted.
*”Whats that smell?”* I asked. *”From the coffee?”*
Thomas 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.”* Id laughed it off until I read it in a chemistry book. Cyanide kills in minutes.
My pulse raced.
*”Tom, are you sure nothings off?”* I kept my voice light. *”Ive got allergiesmaybe Ill take the other cup?”*
He froze for a second. Then smiled.
*”Dont be daft. Its just coffee. Drink up before it goes cold.”*
I nodded, but then footsteps sounded in the hall. His mother, Margaret, emergedstern, sharp-eyed, always watching. Wed never got on. She thought I was *”not good enough”* for her son, that I was *”too common”* for their family.
*”Morning,”* she said curtly, joining us.
*”Morning, Mum,”* Thomas kissed her cheek. *”Coffees ready. Heres your cup.”* He handed her the chipped oneempty.
*”Wheres my coffee?”* she frowned.
*”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, shooting me a glare.
Thomas went still. His eyes flickerednot panic, not anger. *Disappointment.*
*”Stop dawdling,”* Margaret snapped, taking a sip. *”Its strong. But drinkable.”*
I sat, heart hammering, watching the poisoned cup in her hands.
Ten minutes later, she grimaced.
*”Stomachs off”* she muttered. *”Dizzy”*
*”Are you alright?”* I asked, forcing calm.
*”Just cant breathe”* She stood, swayed, then collapsed.
I screamed. Thomas lunged for her, shouting for an ambulance. But I already knewhed meant to kill *me*.
The paramedics arrived. One sniffed the cup.
*”Cyanide poisoning,”* he said. *”High concentration. She wont survive this.”*
Thomas stood pale, trembling. *”I just made coffee”*
The police came. Then the questions.
*”You were the last to handle that mug,”* the detective said to Thomas.
*”Id never hurt her!”* he shouted.
*”But your wife?”* the detective asked, looking at me.
I said nothing.
Later, when they took him in, I found the cupa faint white residue at the bottom. I didnt wash it. I kept it.
Three days later, Margaret died. Cyanide destroys brain cells in minutes.
At the funeral, Thomas looked hollow. Not grief*relief.*
After, he confessed:
*”I was in debt. Gambling. The life insurance half a million quid. Enough to start over.”*
*”And your mother?”*
*”She knew. Threatened to tell you.”*
I threw him out. Filed for divorce.
The police found his fingerprints on the cup. He got fifteen years.
I moved to a lakeside town. Opened a café called *”Almond.”*
Customers ask about the name.
*”Just like the flavour,”* I say.
And I pour them coffeefresh, fearless.
But if someone offers me a cup *theyve* made?
I refuse.
Because I chose the wrong mug once.
And it saved my life.