My daughter and I were having lunch as usual. I had made her favorite soup with homemade noodles and a chicken and corn salad. The kitchen was warm, smelling of herbs, spices, and something cozy. We were chatting happily; she told me about her friends, about a girl from the yard who had learned to stand on her hands, and then suddenly started talking about a cartoon she wanted to watch after lunch.
Everything was perfectly normal. I served the soup, placed the plates on the table, sat opposite her — and at that moment, her face changed. The smile disappeared, her eyes widened, and her voice became sharp, unusually mature:
— Mom, don’t eat that soup.
I froze. The spoon was already halfway to my mouth.
— Why, sweetie?
— I saw… — she lowered her voice — dad pouring something in it this morning.
At that moment, a wave of heat flushed over me. My hands started trembling. I put down the spoon and tried to stay calm. Maybe she misunderstood? Maybe he was just adding spices?
— Are you sure? — I whispered.
I remembered: he did say in the morning that he wanted to cook something himself. It seemed strange — he rarely approached the stove. And then there was a strange smell in the pot, like… medicine?
I took the plates, pretending nothing was wrong, and took them to the sink. I told my daughter I just wanted to warm up the soup. Then I took sterile jars from the pantry and, under the pretense of cleaning, took a little soup sample.
That same day I went to a lab. The next day, the results came back.
The soup contained a sleeping pill. Very strong. In a dose sufficient to incapacitate an adult for several hours.
And then the worst began. I pretended to know nothing but contacted the police. We arranged a wiretap.
A few days later, my husband — my daughter’s father — brought a woman home. While he thought I was asleep, they discussed a plan: he wanted to send me to a psychiatric hospital.
It was his mistress, and they planned to put the property in their name, using my “inadequate behavior” as cover.
When he was arrested, he didn’t resist. Apparently, until the end, he thought I wouldn’t understand anything.
Now he is under investigation. And I still can’t imagine — what would have happened if my daughter hadn’t noticed that morning’s scene? Or worse, if she hadn’t said anything…
Now I look at every spoonful of soup, every cup of tea differently. And every day I thank my daughter — for her attentiveness, her courage, and for saving my life.
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