Chapter 3: Moving In
The first month, I was the perfect daughter-in-law.
I cooked healthy meals. I helped Linda with her medication. I drove her to doctor appointments. I even gave her foot massages when her legs hurt. Ryan kept telling his friends how lucky he was to have such a caring wife.
Linda watched me with narrowed eyes.
She didn’t trust me. She could sense something was different about me. But she couldn’t prove anything.
That was fine.
I didn’t need her to like me.
I just needed her to depend on me.
I started small.
I added tiny amounts of substances to her tea and her evening soup. Just enough to make her nauseous and weak the next day. I was careful — very careful. I researched everything thoroughly and kept detailed notes hidden in an old book in my closet.
Every time she complained of feeling sick, I would look concerned and say, “Maybe you’re just getting older, Linda. These things happen.”
She would glare at me, but she couldn’t argue.
As the months passed, I increased the dosage slightly. Her hair started thinning. She lost weight. Her hands began to shake. She became confused more often and would forget what she was saying mid-sentence.
Ryan was worried, but he trusted me completely.
“You’re doing such a good job taking care of her,” he would say, kissing my forehead. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
I would smile and tell him I was happy to help.
And every night, after Ryan fell asleep, I would sit beside Linda’s bed while she drifted in and out of consciousness and whisper into her ear:
“You killed my baby. Now I’m killing you… one day at a time.”
Her eyes would widen with fear, but her body was too weak to react properly. Sometimes she would try to speak, but only broken sounds would come out.
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I would gently wipe her forehead with a cool cloth and smile.
“Shhh,” I would say. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
