Three Years Of Poison And The Video That Ruined Her

Three years into my marriage, Id had explosive diarrhea over a hundred times.

Every single time, it was after a meal at my in-laws house.

At first, I chalked it up to a sensitive stomach. Then I noticed the pattern: whenever I ate at my parents house or cooked for myself, nothing happened. I was fine.

I brought this up with my husband, Connor.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? he snapped. Are you implying my mother is trying to hurt you?

No, I said quickly.

But deep down, I knew something was terribly wrong.

It wasnt until I installed a discreet camera in their kitchen that I found the truth.

1.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was, once again, dealing with a disaster.

Thirty-plus people from my department were packed into the conference room for the quarterly review. Mr. Alistair, my boss, was droning on about Q2 earnings when the first spasm hit.

It was that familiar, visceral pain, like someone was taking a rope and tightly twisting my intestines.

I tried to breathe through it, my palms slick with sweat. I lasted five minutes, maybe. Then the urgency became a desperate alarm.

I stood up, hunched over, and began the walk of shame out of the room.

The CEO paused mid-sentence to watch me go.

The entire department watched me go.

I didn't care. I bolted from the room and sprinted for the restroom.

I was locked in a stall for twenty miserable minutes.

When I finally emerged, my face was chalk-white and my legs were shaking.

Back in the conference room, Mr. Alistair's expression was icy.

After the meeting, he called me into his office.

Evelyn, he said, leaning back in his chair. How many sick days have you taken this quarter?

I looked down. Seven.

All gastrointestinal issues?

Yes.

He sighed, his gaze heavy. Go see a specialist, Evie. You need to get this sorted. Your job is suffering, and frankly, so is your health.

I nodded, unable to speak.

I had seen specialists.

Not once, but over ten times.

Endoscopy, colonoscopy, ultrasound, bloodwork, stool samples.

The doctors had declared my digestive system perfectly healthy.

Very healthy, theyd said.

Yet, I was still falling apart.

Three years. Over a hundred times.

I had considered every possibility. Food allergies? Negative. Lactose intolerance? Negative. Stress? Only when I ate at my in-laws house. The moment I was home, I was fine.

I presented this pattern to Connor.

He was deep into a video game on the couch, not even glancing up.

What are you getting at?

I just think its possible that

That what?

I hesitated. That maybe theres something wrong with your mothers cooking.

He paused the game. The sudden silence was louder than the screen noise. He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes were cold.

Evelyn, did you just say that out loud?

I didnt mean anything, I just noticed the pattern

What pattern? That my mother, who cooks three-course meals for us, who makes separate, bland dishes just for your sensitive stomach, is trying to sabotage you? Do you know how much effort she puts in?

I do, but

But what? You eat her food, accept her generosity, and then come to me with this ridiculous, paranoid theory?

It's not paranoid, its just a possibility

A possibility of what? He stared me down. The possibility that my mother is putting poison in your food?

I went silent.

He unpaused his game, his attention back on the screen, effectively dismissing me.

That night, we lay in the same bed, pressed against the edges, backs to each other. I listened to his steady breathing, the low whir of the AC, and thought about the last three years.

The first time was the third day after our engagement. Patty had cooked a feast, a welcome dinner. Id eaten happily. I spent the rest of the night doubled over in the bathroom.

Connor had blamed it on "adjustment."

The second time was a week later. Another meal by Patty. Another agonizing night.

Connor said my stomach was "just weak."

The third, fourth, fifth time

Every single time, it was Pattys food.

Every time Id voiced a concern, Connor had accused me of overthinking.

What does my mother have to gain by hurting you? She only wants you to be well.

Did she?

I remembered the way Patty would look at me. Often, she was smiling, her eyes crinkling kindly. But sometimes, in the split second before she turned away, I caught a different expression.

I couldnt name it.

It was chilling.

Like looking at an adversary.

I told myself it was my imagination. Patty was kind. She cooked elaborate meals, sent me home with leftovers, and gave me lavish gift certificates for every holiday. How could she possibly be hurting me?

But the episodes didn't lie.

Three years. Over a hundred times.

Always after eating at her house.

I made a decision. I wouldn't tell anyone.

I would buy a camera, a tiny one, and install it in Pattys kitchen. I needed an answer. Even if the answer was that I was, as Connor suggested, a paranoid mess. I needed to know.

2.

That weekend, we went to my in-laws house as usual.

Patty was beaming. Shed spent the morning grocery shopping and the afternoon busy in the kitchen.

When I arrived, the house smelled wonderfula mix of roasting meat and herbs.

Evie, sweetheart, youre here! Patty poked her head out of the kitchen door, a smear of sauce on her apron. Come sit, dinner will be ready in a minute!

I smiled and sat on the sectional. Connor went to the study to talk to his father, Rich. I was alone in the living room.

I glanced toward the kitchen. The door was slightly ajar. I could hear Pattys energetic movements.

She was efficientchopping, stirring, platinga woman in her element.

Soon, the table was set: Balsamic-glazed ribs, pan-seared halibut, roasted asparagus, lemon risotto, and a shrimp cocktail set right in front of my chair.

Evie loves shrimp, Patty announced with a soft laugh. And I know your stomach is delicate, so I kept it all light and clean, just for you.

Thank you, Patty, I said, picking up a shrimp.

She watched me eat. Her eyes were warm, her mouth curved in a soft, indulgent smile.

Is it good?

Delicious.

Eat up, then.

I took another. The rest of the family settled in. Rich and Connor talked business while Patty continually hovered, topping my plate with food.

Evie, try this halibut. So flaky, not greasy at all.

Evie, have some asparagus. Its a great digestive aid.

Evie, just a few ribs. Theyll put some meat on your bones.

I ate, I responded, but in my head, I was counting down. In exactly two hours, I would feel the first tell-tale cramps.

Sure enough.

Halfway through the drive home, the twisting started.

Connor was driving. I pressed my hands to my abdomen, my face pale.

Whats wrong now? he asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

Stomachs cramping.

He didn't reply.

The moment we pulled into our garage, I burst from the car and ran straight to the bathroom. I was in there for thirty agonizing minutes.

When I came out, weak and shaky, Connor was flipping channels on the sofa.

He looked over. You need to get checked out, again.

I told you, I have. Everything is fine.

Then its psychosomatic.

I didn't engage. Psychosomatic. He always used that word. As if I were a hysterical woman inventing my own illness just to be difficult or to spite his mother.

I wasnt. I just wanted to know why.

Why did this happen only when I ate at their house? Why was I perfectly healthy otherwise? Why couldnt the doctors find anything?

The next day was Monday. I called in sick. I took a day of PTO and drove to a Best Buy.

I bought a micro spy camera. It was tiny, easily concealed, and synced to an app on my phone.

I hid it in my purse. The next time we went to Pattys house, I would install it in the kitchen.

Connor could never know. He would call me insane. He would say I was insulting his mother. But I was beyond caring. Three years was long enough. I needed my answer.

The following weekend, we were invited over again.

I waited until Rich and Connor were in the backyard looking at the new deck and Patty was in the powder room. I slipped into the kitchen.

I scanned the room. Above the stove, where the ventilation fan met the cabinetry, there was a dim, shadowed corner. Perfect.

I stepped onto a stool and quickly affixed the camera, pointing the lens down toward the stove and the cutting board. It would capture everything that happened during the cooking process.

I jumped down, straightened my sweater, and walked out, as casual as possible.

Evie, were you in the bathroom? Patty asked, walking into the living room.

Just touching up my makeup, Patty.

Good. Stay out of the kitchen, dear, its a mess right now.

I smiled. Will do.

After dinner, we left. On the drive home, I covertly checked my phone. The app showed the camera was running. The picture was clear. I could see the range, the prep area, and a corner of the refrigerator.

I turned off the screen, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm.

Now, all I had to do was wait for the next time. The next time Patty cooked, I would finally know the truth.

3.

For the next week, I checked the app several times a day.

Mostly, the kitchen was empty. Occasionally, Patty would walk in to grab a bottle of water or put away a dish. Nothing notable.

Then, the inevitable call came on Friday.

Evie, sweetheart, come over tomorrow for dinner! Im making your favoritethat balsamic-glazed short rib I know you love.

That sounds lovely, Patty.

I hung up, my pulse accelerating. Tomorrow. I would have my answer tomorrow.

I barely slept that night. My mind cycled through possibilities. Maybe Patty truly did nothing. Maybe my stomach wasbad, and the timing was a horrific coincidence. Maybe I was, in fact, a paranoid mess.

But then the memory of the sheer agony returned. The humiliation of sprinting from the conference room. The embarrassment of having to cut short a dinner out with friends.

It was always after her food.

It could not be a coincidence. It couldn't.

Saturday morning, I was awake by eight. I opened the app. The kitchen was empty.

Nine o'clock: Patty entered the frame. I watched, breath held. She began washing and chopping vegetables. Her movements were normal.

Ten o'clock: She started the main course. I zoomed in on the footage. I scrutinized every single action. Trimming the ribs, searing them, mixing the sauce, adding them to the pot

There was nothing amiss.

I began to feel a deep, disheartening certainty: I was paranoid. Connor was right.

Eleven o'clock: Connor called for me. Lets go, were running late.

I pocketed the phone and headed out.

When we arrived, Patty had finished half the meal. She was working on the final sides.

I sat in the living room, my stomach tight with anxiety, convinced I'd wasted my time.

Evie, have an apple, Rich said, handing me a perfectly peeled wedge.

Thanks, Rich.

I took a bite, but my mind was still on the camera. No red flags. Maybe I should just uninstall it. Maybe it was me.

Dinners ready! Patty emerged, carrying the final platter.

The short ribs were placed squarely in front of me. Your favorite, Evie. Taste your mother-in-laws cooking!

I took a rib. It was savory and tender. Delicious.

Patty watched, her face glowing.

Good?

Very good.

Eat plenty.

After dinner, we lingered for an hour. Around 2:00 PM, Connor decided we should leave.

Were taking off, Mom.

Already? Stay a little longer.

No, Evie has a long day tomorrow.

Patty walked us to the door. Drive safe, Evie. Be well.

You too, Patty.

In the car, my stomach started to rumble. A dull ache, just beginning. I knew this feeling. Within the hour, it would escalate into full, paralyzing cramps.

Connor was focused on the road. I pulled out my phone and opened the camera app.

I needed to review the recording of the short ribs.

I scrubbed the timeline back to 10:15 AM.

Patty had just turned off the burner.

Then

She turned toward the refrigerator. She opened the door and reached into a small, isolated compartment on the door panel. She pulled out a tiny, unmarked white pill bottle.

She shook out several tiny, off-white tablets into her palm.

Then, she walked back to the stove. She dumped the pills into the pot of ribs. She gave the contents one final, quick stir with the tongs.

And then she plated the food.

The entire sequence was less than thirty seconds.

Her movements were smooth. Practiced.

I stared at the screen, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone.

For a moment, my mind went blank. Then, a tidal wave of ice-cold fury rushed over me.

Three years.

Three miserable, humiliating years.

Every episode of agony. Every time Connor had called me a paranoid mess. Every shameful sprint from a public place. Every expensive, fruitless doctors visit.

It was her.

My smiling, sweet mother-in-law.

The one who always said, Evie has a sensitive stomach, so I make her light, clean food.

The one who told her friends, I treat my daughter-in-law better than my own daughter.

She was putting laxatives in my food.

For three years.

4.

I don't remember the drive home. Connors voice was a low buzz; I heard nothing he said.

All I could see was the replay: Patty opening the fridge, pulling out the small white bottle, and sprinkling the contents into my ribs. Practiced. Calm.

Three years. Over a hundred times. This was the truth.

The moment we walked through the door, I ran to the bathroom. Forty minutes later, I emerged, weak, sweating, and pale.

Connor was watching TV on the sectional.

Still going?

I didn't answer.

You know, you really need to go see that herbalist I told you about, Evie. Your digestive system is a mess.