“There are traces of heavy metal exposure in your system. At first we considered medication contamination, but the levels are too consistent. It appears you may have been exposed repeatedly over a long period of time.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Emma went pale.
My pulse started pounding.
“Are you saying someone poisoned her?”
“We cannot officially conclude that yet,” the doctor replied. “But we are concerned.”
A cold chill moved down my spine.
Because memories began returning again.
Emma getting sick after meals.
The fatigue.
The unexplained bleeding.
The miscarriages.
And my mother.
Always insisting on preparing herbal mixtures for Emma.
Always saying afterward:
“She’s too weak to carry a child.”
“She’s not right for this family.”
“You deserve someone healthier.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Rain hammered against my apartment windows while Emma rested under observation at the hospital. I replayed every strange moment from the last five years.
My mother, Vivian.
She had never openly hated Emma. In front of others, she played the perfect mother-in-law.
Kind.
Religious.
Gentle.
But when we were alone, the comments always came.
“She’s too emotional.”
“She’s weak.”
“A wife should put her husband first.”
After the first miscarriage, Vivian began bringing homemade herbal drinks almost every day.
Emma hated the taste.
But she drank them politely.
Because that was who Emma was.
She never wanted conflict.
At two in the morning, I drove back to my mother’s house.
The family home stood silent beneath the rain.
Vivian opened the door wearing a shawl.
“Nathan?” she asked. “What are you doing here so late?”
I stepped inside.
My voice was ice.
“Did you poison Emma?”
The room went still.
Vivian’s expression changed for just a second.
Fear.
Then outrage.
“How dare you say that to me?”
“The doctors found heavy metals in her body.”
“And you accuse your own mother?”
“She trusted you,” I said, my voice breaking. “She drank everything you gave her.”
Vivian looked away.
That tiny movement terrified me.
