For a year I was slowly fading from an unknown illness, and just yesterday I saw my daughterinlaw slipping a white powder into my sugar bowl.
It sat in its usual spot, but now it looked to me like a grotesque dish about to spew poison.
Just the day before, I watched Alina, my sons wife, with an angelic smile sprinkle that white powder from a tiny packet clenched between her fingers.
A year. All that time I vanished piece by piece, turning into a shadow. Weakness, a foggy mind, constant nausea that doctors dismissed as agerelated changes and psychosomatic.
I almost believed them. Yet the cause of my decline wasnt my age. It was on the kitchen table.
Mom, you havent eaten again? Alinas voice was syrupy, suffocating. You need strength. Dima is so worried.
She placed a bowl of oatmeal before me. A spoon of sugar was already turning white in the thick mashthe same sugar bowl.
I watched the grains dissolve, feeling a chill creep up my spine.
Thank you, Alina. I just dont feel like eating, I said, my voice hoarse but oddly firm.
Oh, stop complaining! We agreed youd listen to mefor Dimas sake.
She sat opposite me, flawless manicure, compassionate dark eyes. For a moment I wondered if this was just a sick imagination.
But I clearly remembered her quick, stealthy movement at the table while she thought I was still in bed. Then she didnt smile.
Alina, we need to talk, I began, pushing the plate away.
Of course, mother. Im all ears.
I think you and Dima should live separately. You have your own flat.
Her smile didnt waver, but her gaze hardened, assessing, as one does when something suddenly malfunctions.
How could we leave you? In your condition? You cant even take a step without us. Dima will never allow that. He loves you too much.
She pronounced love with a forced emphasis, as if it were an undeniable trump card. And it indeed was.
My son, Dima, saw this woman as a guardian angel for his helpless mother.
I just want peace, I said sincerely.
Thats not you speaking, its your disease, she cut gently. Well get you on your feet. By the way, Dima found a wonderful notary. We decided its time to arrange a donation.
So that later, you know thered be fewer hassles. Purely for your peace of mind.
She talked about my future, my death, as casually as buying breada predator nearly driving its prey to extinction.
Ill think about it.
That evening, after waiting for them to leave for the cinema, I slipped on gloves, emptied the sugar bowl into a bag, and found the same tiny packet Alina had used in the trash can. It wasnt empty.
A few grains remained; I transferred them carefully into a glass medicine jar and hid it.
Now I understood the battle was not for life but for death. I was no longer weak; I became a mother defending her blinded son.
My existence turned into a spy thriller. I ate only what I cooked myself, locking myself in the kitchen.
Whenever Alina asked something, I replied with a smile, Ive decided to go on a diet, dear. The doctor suggested it. I took pills only from packages I opened myself.
Alina watched. Her mask of concern began to crack. Once I saw her swap my bloodpressure tablets for lookalikes.
Oh, mother, I was just trying to help, sorting them into boxes, and you got them mixed up, she chirped when I caught her hand.
That night I had a heavy conversation with my son.
Mom, whats happening? Alina says youre paranoid. You accuse her of mixing up your meds. Do you realize how painful that is for her? She stays up at night searching for the best doctors for you, and you
Dima, shes deceiving me.
Stop! he rose. It would be so easier for her to stay in her flat than to fuss with you! She does this out of love for me! And for you! Why cant you just accept our care?
I looked at him and realized he wasnt hearing. He was echoing her words, her tone. Any attempt to open his eyes would be dismissed as senile ramblings.
The climax arrived the day the notary showed up unannounced.
Surprise, Mom! Alina sang. This is Petro Serhiyovych. Weve decided not to delay the donation.
Dima stood beside her, averting his gaze, embarrassed but compliant. They surrounded me.
I set my book aside slowly.
What a strange coincidence, I said. Just this morning I spoke with an old acquaintance, Igor Matviyovych, a lawyer. He advised me, given my condition, to record any legal talks. Anything signed under pressure or with a vulnerable person can be contested. I pointed to the old button phone on the table; a tiny red light indicated recording was on.
Alinas expression shifted in an instant. Her smile fell, revealing a predatory grimace.
Why? she hissed.
Just for my own protection, I replied, turning my gaze to my son. Dima, I wont sign anything. Petro Serhiyovych, sorry for taking your time.
A flash of hatred crossed Alinas eyes. She realized the rules had changed.
After that, she lay low, but I sensed only a calm before the storm. She would strike at the most painful spot, and it wouldnt be long before it happened.
Returning from the clinic exhausted and irritable, I found my bedroom door ajar and heard the familiar rustle of torn paper.
Alina sat on the floor, tearing up my letters, photographs, Dimas childhood drawingseverything that made up my life. She wasnt cleaning; she was erasing my existence.
What do you need this junk for? she shouted without looking back. It wont matter soon enough.
In that moment something died inside me and at the same time a cold, hard blade of resolve was forged. Enough.
I walked silently to the kitchen. My hands didnt tremble. I took the jar, poured the powder into a cup, and added hot water. When I turned back, Alina eyed me warily.
I brought tea. You look tired.
Afraid? I smiled. Good reason.
I dialed a numbernot my sons, but my lawyers.
Mr. Igor Matviyovych, Im ready. Doing as you suggested.
Then I called Dima.
Son, come home immediately! Alina has locked herself in my room, shouting she cant live any longer, she drank something!
My voice cracked. Alina stiffened.
What are you saying, old witch? she snapped.
Shes unconscious! The cup is broken! I yelled, throwing the tea cup to the floor.
Alina froze, staring at the spill, finally understanding, but it was too late. I sat down and waited.
Dima burst into the room, pale as a wall. His eyes darted between me, Alina, the shards, the torn photos.
Mom what happened?
She tried to poison me! Alina screamed. Shes mad! She wanted to kill me!
Is that true, Mom? his voice trembled.
I approached him silently.
Look, sonnot at me, but at the floor. Heres your first alphabet book. Heres a letter from dad in the hospital. She wasnt destroying me; she was destroying you.
Dima bent, lifted the torn page, his face turning to stone.
Alina why?
Its just junk! I wanted to help! she shrieked.
Is that help? I handed him the jar of powder. A year, Dima. All this year she fed me this.
Remember how she accidentally lost prescriptions from good doctors? How she refused to take me for exams in another city? Remember!
He stared at the jar, then at his wife. Offense, disgust, shock reshaped his understanding.
Is it true? he whispered.
Alina stayed silent. She had lost.
A knock sounded at the doornot police, but Igor Matviyovych with two burly men, followed by investigators he had summoned earlier.
Im the attorney for Anna Viktorivna, he introduced. I request documentation of the attempted poisoning and possible fraud. Theres reason to believe Alina systematically harmed my clients health to seize her property. Please seize the jar and floor samples.
Alina collapsed onto the floor, not from pity but from the collapse of her scheme.
Dima and I were left alone. He knelt, gathering the fragments, his shoulders trembling. I didnt try to calm him; I simply sat beside him and helped. Both of us paid a steep price for the truth, but only such a price can free one from a sweet, lethal whirl.
Three years have passed. Sometimes I feel the horror happened to someone else. I look in the mirror and see not a fatigued shadow but a strong woman with clear eyes.
Health returned gradually, bringing with it inner peacethe most precious kind.
Alina received a real prison term for attempted murder motivated by greed.
Dima walked for a long time, as if bearing the weight of betrayal. We talked a lot, often with tears. He begged forgiveness for not seeing, not hearing, not believing. I held no grudge. He was a victim, just as I wasonly his wound was struck not by poison but by a dagger to the heart.
That scar stayed with him forever, but it made him wiser, more attentive. A year ago he introduced me to Katya, a quiet, sincere girl with warm eyes.
I watched her anxiously, unconsciously searching for a flaw. There was none. Katya didnt try to impress me; she simply was. She brought her favorite books, sat silently beside me, and we looked out the windowsilence that felt warm.
Today is Sunday. The apartment smells of baked apples and cinnamonKatya is making a charlotte using my recipe.
Anna Viktorivna, look, the cake has risen? she calls.
I step into the kitchenshe and Dima are by the oven. He wraps his arm around her shoulders, and they stare at the cake as if at a miracle. Their happiness is not ostentatious; it is genuine, filled with trust.
The cake rose, dear, perfectly, I smile. Just dont open the oven too early.
I remember. You warned me its temperamental.
She remembers. She listens. To her, my experience is not trash but value.
We sit for tea. Dima places a new sugar bowlplain, whiteon the table. I calmly drop a spoonful of sugar into my cup. Fear has vanished. Only understanding remains of what people can do. Yet alongside it came another thingknowledge of true warmth.
Mom, we were thinking, Dima says, holding Katyas hand. Maybe we could go to the dacha this weekend? All together.
I look at my son, who has learned to see deeper, at his wife, who brought light, and I realize we werent broken. We were cleansed.
And this quiet, real happiness is the greatest reward.
