At dinner my husband mocked me again, but when I caught his mother in the kitchen, the smile disappeared from his face

During dinner, Oleg pushed the plate away as if there were something disgusting before him, while at that moment I still did not know that his mother was secretly entering our kitchen. The spoon struck the edge of the plate, and a ringing sound passed through the room.

“It is bitter again,” he said.

“Bitter?” I turned from the tap. “This is ordinary chicken soup.”

“Everything is ordinary to you. Mother also told me that lately you can no longer cook.”

I sat opposite him, took a little broth from his plate with a clean spoon, and immediately my mouth burned like fire. It was bitter, sour, and strangely sharp. But the same soup from the pot was golden, light, and completely normal.

“The food in the pot is good, but the food in your plate has been changed,” I told him quietly.

Oleg rolled his eyes.

“Are you going to start defending your own cooking now?”

“Who added something to it?”

“Probably you. Or perhaps you simply no longer want to cook for me.”

His words hurt me more than the bitterness of the soup. I got up early, worked part-time, paid the loan, and cooked food for two families every day. In recent months Oleg had been going to his mother’s for dinner more and more often.

“I cook for your mother because you asked me to,” I said.

“No one is forcing you. If you are too lazy, say so.”

He stood up, took his jacket, and stopped at the door.

“I am going to my mother’s. At least I eat normally there.”

The door slammed. And I was left alone in the kitchen, holding the spoon that was still stained with bitter broth.

It all began in autumn. Raisa Sergeyevna said that her back hurt, that she had no strength left, and that it was difficult for her to be alone. Oleg immediately suggested that I cook for her too. I did not object. Every morning I filled two additional containers, and his mother entered at noon with her own key.

But after a month her complaints changed. First she said the food was too salty. Then that it was sour. Finally Oleg repeated the same thing, as if they were both reading the same text.

The next morning I did not go to work. I made fresh soup, put two containers on the table, and went into the bedroom. I closed the door slightly so that I could see the kitchen through a small gap. My hands were trembling, but I forced myself not to make a sound.

At about one o’clock, a key turned in the lock.

Raisa Sergeyevna entered, carefully took off her shoes, and hung a large bag on her elbow. She went into the kitchen, listened to the silence for several seconds, and then looked toward the door.

I even held my breath.

She took a small, brightly red packet from the bag. Something was written on its surface in black letters, but I could not read it from that distance.

Raisa Sergeyevna opened the first container, put in a spoon, and reached directly toward the packet…

Raisa Sergeyevna’s hand stopped near the packet. Then she looked around the room once more and began taking powder from the red package with her fingers. I stood by the bed, barefoot on the frozen cold floor, and only one thought went through my head: this woman really intended to spoil my food.

She poured the powder into the container, closed the lid, and shook it several times. Then she opened the second container and did the same there.

“What are you doing?” I asked loudly.

She turned as if I had appeared from the wall. She clutched the packet in her hand, and her face went pale in an instant.

“Larisa, you are home?”

“That is more interesting now. What are you adding to my food?”

“Nothing. It is just seasoning.”

“Why do you have the seasoning hidden in the bottom pocket of your bag?”

She put the packet on the table and raised her chin.

“Savory. Your food is tasteless, and I cannot watch Oleg suffer.”

“Why does it say that on it? And why is the powder white?”

Raisa Sergeyevna did not answer. She picked up the bag and went toward the door.

“I will tell Oleg about this today.”

“Tell him. But first, this packet stays here.”

“Are you a thief?”

“This is my kitchen and my food. You are not taking the packet.”

She reached out her hand, but I stepped in front of the table. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. For the first time I understood that in this house I was losing not only food—I was also being stripped of my place.

Raisa Sergeyevna finally left the packet and went away. When the door closed, I immediately called my neighbor Marina, who worked at a pharmacy. She came in ten minutes, looked at the red packet, and frowned.

“This is not kitchen seasoning,” she told me.

“Then what is it?”

“I cannot tell you exactly yet. It must be tested in a laboratory. But it cannot be put into food.”

That same evening Oleg burst into the house shouting. He held his mother’s phone in his hand, as if it were already a judge’s verdict.

“Mother says you insulted her!”

“She poisoned my food.”

“Poisoned?” Oleg laughed bitterly. “Now you are also accusing my mother of murder?”

“The packet is here. Marina saw it too.”

“It is an ordinary additive.”

“Then taste it yourself.”

Oleg fell silent. Only for a moment. Then he leaned on the chair and hissed through his teeth:

“You have become paranoid lately.”

He said that word to me for the first time, but it was clearly not the first time he had thought it. That night I found a small recorder locked in the cupboard, belonging to Oleg. Its red light was blinking. I could not understand when he had placed it there, but it was obvious—he had been recording our conversation.

I took the recorder, filmed it with my phone, and sent it to Marina. Then I decided to submit a sample to the city laboratory.

In the morning I took the sample, but Oleg was waiting for me at the laboratory door. Beside him stood an unfamiliar man holding a leather folder.

“Let us go home,” Oleg told me.

“No.”

The unfamiliar man opened the folder and placed one sheet of paper on the table.

“Mrs. Larisa, your husband claims that you pose a danger to the family. Until the examination is completed, he wants you to leave the apartment.”

I looked at the paper. My signature was on it, but I had never signed that document. And for the first time Oleg could not look at me.

“It is forged,” I said.

The unfamiliar man took out a second sheet.

“You will probably say that about this one too. However, there is a recording in which you yourself speak about all this…”

He took a small device from the folder and pressed the power button…

My voice came from the device, but the words were such that for several seconds I could not believe my own ears.

“If Oleg does not leave the house, I will put something in the food and make everyone believe that he is sick…”

Raisa Sergeyevna’s voice followed, sharp and calm:

“Start with the food. Then we will say that his nerves are ruined and that living with his wife is dangerous.”

The recording stopped. Heavy silence fell in the laboratory corridor. Marina covered her mouth with her hand, while the unfamiliar man looked at Oleg.

“Is this your recording?” he asked him.

Oleg cleared his throat.

“It has been edited.”

“It is saved on your phone,” I said. “I only found the recorder in the cupboard.”

Raisa Sergeyevna, who had been standing by the door until then, stepped forward.

“Larisa, it is just a conversation. Words have no meaning.”

“When you pour something into my food, they do.”

At that very moment the laboratory specialist brought the result of the sample taken from the red packet. The paper said that the powder was not a food additive. It turned out to be a mixture of a strong bitter substance that, even in a small amount, caused nausea, dizziness, and a sharp change in blood pressure.

“Poisoning?” Marina asked quietly.

“There was a risk of serious intoxication,” the specialist replied. “Especially for an elderly or sick person.”

The color drained from Oleg’s face.

“Mother, what were you doing?”

“I was doing it for you!” Raisa shouted. “Your wife had to be shown that she could no longer take care of the family. You had to sell the apartment before she completely ruined everything!”

“Why did you want to sell the apartment?” I asked.

She fell silent for a moment. Oleg looked away.

The unfamiliar man, who until then had only been checking the documents, began speaking calmly:

“I am a representative of the notary. Mrs. Larisa, you should know that yesterday they illegally tried to transfer the share registered in your name. That is why I came.”

My hands went cold.

“My share?”

“The apartment was originally financed by your grandmother. Oleg had taken out a loan and wanted to repay it by forging your signature. If they sold the apartment, you would lose almost everything.”

Oleg raised his head.

“I was simply looking for a way out.”

“And the way out was breaking me?” I asked.

He could not find an answer.

At that moment a call came to my phone from an unknown number. I answered hesitantly.

“Mrs. Larisa?” a man said. “We have another recording. In it your husband says that if you do not leave the house, he will convince doctors that you are mentally unstable.”

I looked at Oleg. He still thought that the worst had already been exposed.

But the second recording was going not to me, but to the police…