After the accident, I lay in hospital, battered and helpless, when my mother-in-law brought my son to see me. My little boy handed me a bottle of orange juice and, to my surprise, whispered softly, Granny said you should drink this, but she told me not to say anything else.
It seems like another world now, all those years ago. The driver who caused the crash sped away, vanishing into the London drizzle as if nothing had happened. I slipped in and out of waking, and the doctors spoke in careful, guarded tones. My husband lingered in the corridor, pale and silent, while my mother-in-law took over everythingpaperwork, conversations, and visits. I was too feeble to protest.
I remember the wards heavy silence the day she arrived, striding in ahead of my son. She led him by the hand, her back straight, and she wore that tight, brittle smile she always saved for special occasions. My boy looked terribly serious for his age, as if he already knew this solemn place was no room for laughter or questions.
She placed him beside my bed, muttering it would only be for a minuteJust so the child wont worry, you know. Then she moved to the window, pretending to give us privacy, but I could feel the weight of her attention prickling behind me.
My son clambered awkwardly onto the bed and offered me a bottle of orange juice. I took it without thinking, noticing how my fingers trembled. He leaned in close, shielding his mouth with a small hand, and whispered so softly I could scarcely hear:
Granny said you should drink it… if I want a new, prettier mummy. But she said not to say anything else.
Everything seemed to stop. The juice was cold in my palm, too vibrant in colournothing like what the hospital served. Suddenly, the little room felt suffocating, the air thick with something unspoken. I sensed my husbands stare from the doorway, and though my mother-in-law appeared to focus on the rain outside, I knew she watched us both with sharp, unblinking intent.
Carefully, I set the bottle on the coverlet and then tipped it out, letting the orange liquid run quietly onto the linoleum as though Id drunk it. But I knew then I needed answerswhy had my mother-in-law wanted me to drink that, and why would she drag my own son into her scheme?
Long after theyd gone, I gazed at the bright orange puddle on the floor. The doctors had warned mefresh stitches, blood loss, a body barely held together. No medicines without our guidance, theyd said. Anything could have been fatal.
The next morning, I quietly asked the ward sister if she could have the juice tested. No fuss, no explanationsjust a simple request.
The results arrived by evening.
Inside that bottle they found drugsblood thinners, the sort that could easily turn a fresh wound into a death sentence. Nothing dangerous for a healthy soul, no worse than an aspirin. But to me, still raw from surgery, it meant only one thing: a rush of internal bleeding, a sudden crisis, and, as the doctors so delicately put it, unforeseeable complications.
The doctor was silent for a long while before he asked who had brought me the drink. I gave the truth.
Closing my file, he murmured that if I had swallowed even half, by morning nothing could have been done.
It all clicked into place with a sort of dreadful clarity. My mother-in-law had spoken to my doctors, asked endless questions, and feigned concern. She knew about my stitches. She understood exactly what was at risk.
Yet still, she sent my son in with the bottle. Told him to hand it to me. Swore him to secrecy.
That night, when my husband visited, I handed him the doctors report. He studied it for a long time, his eyes flicking up to me, searching for something he couldnt name.
She said it was just juice… to give you strength, he finally managed.
I said nothing.
Because by then, I understood: when I left that hospital, I would leave more than my wounds behind. I would walk out not just as a woman reeling from trauma, but as someone who would never again let such darkness close to her heart.
