Vera stood by the window, replaying the events in her mind for what felt like the thousandth time. That evening, a wreath had arrived at their flat—a real one, meant for mourning, adorned with a black ribbon. Her name was on it. No note. No card. Just silence and a chilling darkness in that box.
Her husband, Andrew, hadn’t even batted an eye. He simply shrugged.
“Maybe it’s a mistake? Or someone’s sick joke…”
“A mistake? Are you serious?” Vera stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
She knew where it had come from. Knew how precisely her address had been written. Knew there was only one person in their lives who had never called her by her name, who had despised her openly and silently for years—her mother-in-law.
Margaret Winthrop believed her son deserved better. Someone model-perfect, with a pedigree like a show dog, preferably without a family—”nothing weighing him down.” And Vera? Ordinary, hardworking, barely five feet tall, from a modest background, sewing her own dresses since childhood. But she had loved Andrew truly.
Margaret wasn’t looking for love. She wanted control. And when she lost it—she retaliated.
At first, it seemed harmless. Snide remarks, jabs, backhanded advice. Then came the meddling in their home, “gifts” with dubious intentions. Later, undergarments “mysteriously” appeared in the wardrobe—as if Vera had someone else. As if, in a flat where every shelf was in plain sight, she could hide such a thing.
But it was always brushed off as coincidence. Even when Vera found a live snake in the berries from a “care package,” Andrew just shrugged:
“Well, who knows… Maybe it wandered in from the woods?”
Vera locked herself in the bathroom and wept. Not from fear. From helplessness. Because worse than snakes were people—the ones who pretended to be family while poisoning the heart of your own home.
She endured. For years. Until the day she caught Andrew with another woman. In their kitchen. Smiling, long-legged, impeccably dressed.
“She came to me!” he blurted, not even bothering to cover his tracks.
Vera didn’t say a word. She simply pointed to the door. And to the wreath—still unthrown away. Because she knew: such messages weren’t meant to be discarded. They were brands. Full stops at the end of stories you never wanted to finish.
After the divorce, Vera moved out. He stayed with his mother. Then a neighbour called:
“Did you hear? Your former mother-in-law remarried. That childhood friend of hers—the one who was always around…”
Vera smirked. Not out of spite. But from realisation: her place in that family had long been earmarked. Not for the son. For herself.
Now she lives in a new flat. She glances at the wreath—yes, she kept it—and whispers:
“Thank you. It wasn’t a curse. It was my deliverance.”
Sometimes, the darkest gifts show us the brightest paths.
