My mom never liked my wife. On my wedding day, she cried, “Son, she’s not the one for you!” I said, “One day, you’ll love her too!” She didn’t argue. Just nodded. Two years later, Mom died. Sudden stroke. No warning. I went to empty her house.
I froze when I looked under her bed. She had been…

…writing letters. Dozens of them. Stacked neatly in an old wooden box, yellowed with time but meticulously organized by date. My name was on each envelope. Some had tear stains. Others had lipstick smudges. All were unopened.

I sit cross-legged on the floor, suddenly aware of how quiet the house is. My fingers tremble as I pick up the top letter. The date is one week after our wedding. I recognize her handwriting immediately—loopy, neat, elegant. My throat tightens.

“Dear Matthew,” it begins.

“I didn’t want to cry that day, but I couldn’t stop myself. I saw the way you looked at her, and I knew I had lost you. Not to her, but to time. To the man you’re becoming, to the life you’re building. Still, I pray that I’m wrong about her…”

I blink hard. My chest clenches.

I read another. And another. Over the next two hours, I go through at least twenty letters. They aren’t full of hatred, like I feared. They are full of conflict. Pain. Doubt. She wants to believe in Emma—my wife—but she sees shadows where I see light. She describes moments. Things I never noticed. A forced smile here. A quiet tension there. She talks about overheard phone calls, late nights when Emma thought no one was listening.

One letter from a year ago makes my blood run cold.

“Matthew, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m not well. Something isn’t right. I feel dizzy sometimes. I’m forgetting things. I think Emma knows. She brought me tea the other day, and I swear it smelled off. I poured it down the drain when she wasn’t looking. Maybe I’m paranoid, but Matthew… if anything happens to me, please don’t just assume it was natural.”

I drop the letter. The room spins. My mom’s words echo in my head like a scream from the grave.

Did she think… Emma was poisoning her?

No. That’s insane. Emma wouldn’t—couldn’t—do something like that. She was always so kind to my mother, even when the tension between them was sharp enough to cut glass. But then again… maybe too kind. Always bringing food. Drinks. Offering to “help” manage Mom’s medications when we visited. I remember once seeing her empty a capsule and refill it with powder, saying, “Your mom doesn’t like swallowing pills, I’m just helping.”

I never questioned it.

I stumble to my feet, heart pounding. I grab the entire box of letters, shove it in my duffel bag, and race out of the house. I drive home like a madman, every red light a suggestion, every second heavier than the last. When I pull into our driveway, the porch light is already on. Emma steps outside, smiling.

“Hey, babe,” she says sweetly, “You’re back early. Everything okay?”

I can’t answer. I just stare at her. At her perfect posture. Her calm voice. Her unbothered face.

“Everything’s fine,” I lie. “Just tired. I found some of Mom’s old stuff. Gonna look through it.”

She nods and leans in to kiss me. Her lips are warm, soft—familiar—but now I feel like I’m kissing a stranger.

That night, after she falls asleep, I tiptoe to the garage and dig through our storage cabinets. I find the box of Mom’s medications we packed up after her death. Some expired. Some unopened. One is labeled “Diazepam”—a sedative. I remember Emma insisting the doctor approved it.

Something inside me snaps.

I drive to the hospital first thing the next morning. I ask for a toxicology report. They tell me none was done—Mom’s death was ruled a natural stroke. I demand they revisit it. They won’t. Not without cause.

But I have cause now. I have letters.

I go to the police.

The officer listens patiently. He reads a few of the letters. He tells me it’s “concerning,” but without proof of poisoning or physical evidence, there’s not much they can do. I ask if they can exhume her body. He winces.

“That’s a serious request,” he says. “And expensive. You’d need legal grounds.”

I leave with a card, a case number, and a hollow ache in my chest.

Back home, Emma is in the kitchen making tea.

“Want some?” she asks, holding out a cup.

My fingers hesitate near the handle.

“What kind is it?” I ask.

“Chamomile,” she smiles. “Your favorite.”

I take it. But I don’t drink.

Instead, I excuse myself and flush it down the upstairs sink. My hands are shaking.

I can’t live like this. With this doubt. This slow, creeping fear that the woman I love might’ve done something monstrous. I start to watch her. Closely. I set up a small camera in the kitchen—just a cheap one, tucked in a vent. I check the footage daily.

Three days later, I see something that makes my blood freeze again.

Emma is at the counter. She pours tea. Reaches into her pocket. Sprinkles something from a small silver vial into the cup. It dissolves instantly. She stirs. Then she pours a second cup—clean.

She labels the cups with our initials.

She brings me the first one.

I stare at the screen in disbelief.

I confront her that night.

She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t deny it. Instead, she looks tired. And angry.

“You never listened to her,” she says coldly. “You were always her little boy. I tried to be patient. I tried to be the wife you needed. But she made me feel worthless. Like I was stealing you from her. And you just let her!”

My voice breaks. “So you drugged her?”

“She was losing her mind,” Emma snaps. “She was paranoid. Unstable. I only gave her something to calm down. She begged for peace—I gave it to her.”

“You could’ve told me. You could’ve helped her, not… this!”

“She was poisoning us, Matthew. Don’t you see? Every bitter word. Every sideways glance. You think this marriage could’ve survived with her between us?”

I take a step back.

I don’t know who this woman is anymore.

The police come the next morning. I show them the footage. The vial. The letters. They open a case. Emma is arrested.

I sit alone in the living room, surrounded by silence. My phone buzzes with messages from friends, family, the media. I ignore them all.

I open the last letter. The one dated a week before she died.

“Matthew, if you’re reading this, then maybe I’m gone. I hope I’m wrong. I hope I lived long enough to see you happy. To see you smile without that shadow behind your eyes. I tried to love her. I did. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Maybe that’s my failure as a mother. Or maybe it was my last gift to you—this doubt. This warning. Either way, know this: I loved you more than anything. And I always will.”

I cry. For the first time in years, I cry like a child.

A week later, I visit her grave. The wind rustles the leaves. The sun filters through the branches. I kneel, run my fingers over her name etched in stone, and whisper, “I’m sorry, Mom. I should’ve listened.”

She doesn’t answer. But the silence feels lighter.

Peaceful.

I walk away knowing the truth. And that truth, no matter how painful, sets me free.