I should’ve known better than to trust a gift from Debbie.
That too-sweet smile when she handed me the box, the glint in her eye—it wasn’t kindness.
But they were just shoes, right? Beautiful yellow patent leather heels, perfectly my style. For once, it seemed my mother-in-law was making an effort.
“Oh, they’re lovely,” I said, masking my unease.
She smiled. “I thought you might want something nice for once.”
I’d smiled and played along, like always. After all, Arthur loved her, and I was trying to keep the peace.
Still, Debbie’s jabs had been constant. Like the time she reminisced about Arthur’s ex at Christmas dinner or crashed our anniversary with childhood photos.
I left the shoes in their box—until a work trip to Chicago. “Wear them,” Arthur said. “Show her you appreciate the effort.”
I slipped them on, ignoring the pit in my stomach.
At the airport, something felt off in my left shoe. By the time I reached security, I was limping. The TSA agent asked me to remove the insoles—and there it was: a hidden plastic-wrapped bundle.
I froze. “These were a gift from my mother-in-law,” I said, panicked.
Thankfully, the package tested negative for drugs, but they confiscated it. I made my flight, barely. But the fear lingered.
Back home, I had the bundle tested. Mugwort. Yarrow. St. John’s Wort—herbs used in folk magic for severing bonds and banishing people.
Debbie hadn’t just sabotaged me—she tried to cast me out.
I told Arthur everything. He was silent, then furious.
“She crossed a line,” he said. “Until she owns up and apologizes, she’s not welcome here.”
He held my hand, resolute. “You’re my family now.”
As he called her, I looked at the shoes in our closet—pretty, poisonous reminders that love means choosing who you stand beside, no matter what.
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