The Charmer

My mother-in-law Miranda loved picking mushrooms, saying mushroom chicken soup was very nourishing.

She often cooked it, specifically for my husband Austin.

Yet, she never allowed me to have any, not even a spoonful of broth.

Every time, she made up an excuse to send me out to buy things.

If I refused, what awaited me was my husband's violent outbursts.

This time, I obediently agreed—even though it had only been five days since I had a miscarriage. The sun was blazing outside, but I still had to go.

1

At 6 a.m., Miranda barged into my room in a flurry and snapped, "Still not awake? Didn't I call yesterday to let you know I'd come to cook chicken soup for my son? Austin works so hard to support you—do you have any idea how tough he has it? And here you are, still lazing around…"

She went on scolding, but these were the only sentences I clearly heard.

At this point, it had only been five days since I lost my baby. It wasn't due to health problems; rather, Austin had come home drunk, beaten me brutally, and caused my miscarriage.

This wasn't the first time.

The first time it happened, I fled to my parents' house. He came, kneeled in apology, promising it would never happen again.

I forgave him, but the violence only worsened.

Of course, this time I forgave him again. Like Miranda often said, a woman who couldn't even keep a baby was useless.

Dragging myself out of bed, I walked into the kitchen and saw mushrooms lying on the table.

Suddenly, a sharp slap hit my back as Miranda scolded fiercely, "What are you staring at? Go wash those mushrooms right now!"

I frowned and asked, "Miranda, where did this mushroom come from? I've never seen you bring it home before. Could it be poisonous?"

As expected, Miranda brushed it off with her usual nonchalance. "Look at you, so clueless. This is a rare mushroom—perfect for stewing with chicken soup. It's super nourishing. I was out there before dawn, waiting to snag it. Otherwise, someone else would've grabbed it first. Hurry up, stop dawdling. Emalee is coming over soon. Let her use your computer, and don't be stingy with family like last time."

The mere mention of my sister-in-law Emalee sent a spark of anger flaring inside me.

Half a year ago, I was still working at the company. I'd just drafted a new proposal—hadn't even saved it yet—when Emalee deleted it.

She had the nerve to play the victim, saying it wasn't on purpose. I was so furious I slapped her across the face.

That unsaved proposal cost me my job.

Without a word, Austin slapped me twice, knocking me to the ground, then kicked me in the stomach.

"How dare you hit my sister? Who do you think you are?" he shouted.

Miranda egged him on from the sidelines. "Beat her! Teach her a lesson! How dare she lay a hand on my daughter?"

He didn't stop until blood started pooling between my legs.

That was how I lost my first child.

I lost my job too. I ran back to my parents' house, swearing I'd divorce him. But my mom said remarriage would be tough and humiliating.

Austin showed up at my family's doorstep, groveling—kneeling, even hitting himself like a madman to apologize.

I gave in and went back. What I got in return was worse beatings.

He hid my phone, cutting me off from the world for a whole month.

Then he started staying out all night, coming home to crash on the couch, giggling at his phone like an idiot.

Miranda kept bringing over mushrooms—sometimes even packing a bowl in a thermos to take with her when she left.

I started to suspect something.

As for who she was taking it to, I didn't bother digging deeper.

What truly crushed me, though, was a call from the insurance company.

They told me Austin had taken out a life insurance policy on me.

The beneficiary? Him.

2

While I was lost in thought, the doorbell rang. I opened it to see Emalee standing there, dressed like some wannabe cool kid.

A flicker of disgust crossed my face. She looked down on me just as much.

"Miranda, your darling daughter's here," I called out.

"Aylin, can you wash my clothes for me? I just got back from school," Emalee said casually, strolling into the living room.

Outside the door sat her oversized white suitcase.

Every time, she'd pile up a month's worth of clothes—pants, shirts, even underwear—and dump them on me to wash.

I let out a soft grunt, hauled the suitcase to the balcony, and opened it.

A wave of stench hit me. Holding back my nausea, I tossed her stuff into the laundry bucket piece by piece.

From the kitchen, I could hear Miranda and Emalee chatting faintly.

"Miranda, this mushroom smells amazing," Emalee cooed.

"Of course it does," Miranda replied with a laugh. "It's a rare mushroom—stewed with chicken soup, it's the best tonic."

Emalee always played the sweet little girl around family.

"Then I'm eating extra!"

"Don't worry, you little glutton, there's plenty for you," Miranda said warmly.

"Go call your brother and ask when he's getting back."

I smirked to myself. Eat up. Eat as much as you can.

Crouching down, I zipped up the suitcase, shoved it into a corner of the balcony, and glanced outside.