For my birthday, my mother-in-law gave me shoes. When I took the insole out, I was shocked.
I should have known not to trust Debbie’s gift. Her too-sweet smile never meant kindness. Yet there I was, holding glossy yellow heels she gave me for my birthday. Lovely shoes—or so I thought.
“Thank you, Debbie,” I said, forcing a smile. She waved off my gratitude, adding a thin barb about my usual “useful shoes.”
I left them untouched until a work trip to Chicago. Arthur casually said, “You should wear Mom’s shoes.” Maybe he thought it was an olive branch.
At the airport, my left foot felt strange. TSA scanned my shoes and asked me to step aside. Lifting the insole revealed a small plastic-wrapped package. My heart sank.
Tests showed no illegal substances—but the contents were herbs: mulethief, yarrow, St. John’s Wort. Folk magic. Debbie had tried to curse me.
That night, I told Arthur. Dish soap bubbles stuck to his hands, but his resolve was clear: “She tried to hurt you. She can’t come into our house until she owns it.”
The shoes stayed in the closet—a warning. Standing together, we knew one thing: no attempt to break us would succeed.
