In a quaint little village nestled in the rolling hills of Yorkshire, where cottages were draped in ivy and wildflowers bloomed in every garden, young Emily married her beloved William. After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into the home of his mother, Margaret. But Emily’s joy soon turned to sorrow—Margaret was a stern woman, her endless criticisms cutting like a knife. Overwhelmed by despair, Emily could bear it no longer and resolved to rid herself of her tormentor once and for all.
On a dreary afternoon, Emily sought out old Nicholas, the village herbalist and a friend of her late father, who lived on the outskirts of town. Nicholas was known for his knowledge of remedies, and Emily trusted he would help her.
“Nicholas, I can’t endure Margaret any longer!” she burst out the moment she stepped into his cottage. “She’s poisoning my life! Please, help me—I’ll pay whatever you ask!”
The herbalist narrowed his eyes, studying her with a gaze as deep as an old well, as if he could see straight through her.
“What is it you want from me, Emily?” he asked quietly.
“Poison,” she whispered, glancing around as though afraid the walls might hear. “I’ll end my misery—one way or another.”
Nicholas stroked his silver beard in silence before finally sighing.
“Very well, I’ll help,” he said. “But there are two conditions you must accept. First, you can’t act rashly. If Margaret falls ill too suddenly, suspicion will fall on you. I’ll give you herbs that work slowly, so her passing seems natural. Second, to avoid suspicion, you must master your temper. Be kind, patient—treat her like a daughter, not a foe. Then, when she dies, no one will question you.”
Emily hesitated, but finally nodded. She took the small pouch of herbs Nicholas handed her and returned home.
From that day on, Emily slipped the herbs into Margaret’s meals—her stews, porridge, even her tea. Yet she also steeled herself to change. She forced smiles when Margaret scolded, listened patiently to advice she found foolish, and helped with chores without complaint. She even asked about Margaret’s youth, softening her tone, pretending warmth where there had been resentment.
At first, it was agony. Every sharp word from Margaret made Emily’s blood boil, but she bit her tongue and carried on. Slowly, Margaret began to notice the change. Her stern gaze softened, her harsh words turned to praise.
“What a treasure my daughter-in-law is!” Margaret would say to the neighbors, beaming with pride. “No one could ask for better than Emily!”
Before long, their bond grew so warm that Emily scarcely remembered her old anger. They sipped tea together, baked pies, shared laughter over small things. Margaret became like a second mother, and Emily, the daughter she’d never had.
But one day, watching Margaret laugh, Emily suddenly remembered the poison. Her heart clenched in terror—she couldn’t lose her now! Panicked, she rushed back to Nicholas, tears in her eyes.
“Please!” she cried, bursting into his cottage. “Save Margaret! I gave her poison, but I don’t want her to die! She’s the kindest soul—I love her like my own mother!”
Nicholas smiled gently and shook his head.
“Don’t fret, Emily,” he said. “I never gave you poison. Those were just herbs—dried mint and chamomile. The only poison was in your heart, and you’ve already cured yourself.”
Emily stood frozen, tears of relief streaming down her face. When she returned home, she hugged Margaret tightly, feeling for the first time that her soul was free of bitterness.
