My son sent me a box of handmade birthday chocolates. The next day he asked, ‘So…

 

 

My son sent me a box of handmade birthday chocolates. The next day, he asked, “So, how are the chocolates?” I smiled and said, “I gave them to your wife and the kids. They love sweets.” He went silent, then whispered, terrified. “Dad, you did what?” The phone rang at 8:04 a.m. on Sunday morning. I was sitting in my recliner in my small two-bedroom house in Athens, Georgia, reading the Sunday Paper and drinking coffee.

 70 years old, retired from the post office after 42 years. Quiet life, simple life. The phone display showed David’s number. My son, my only child. Morning, son. I answered. Thanks again for those birthday chocolates. That was really thoughtful of you, Dad. His voice was shaking. Actually shaking like he’d been running.

 The chocolates I sent you yesterday. Did you eat them? I smiled, taking another sip of coffee. The box had arrived Saturday afternoon via courier. Fancy Belgian chocolates in a gold box with a burgundy ribbon. Must have cost him $200 at least. Way too expensive for a postal worker’s birthday. They looked too fancy for an old man like me.

 You know, I prefer the cheap stuff from Walmart. I gave them to Jennifer and the grandkids when I stopped by last night. You know how much little Emma loves chocolate. Silence. Dead. Horrible. Suffocating silence. Then a scream. Not a yell. A scream. You did what? The sound hit me like a physical blow. Pure panic. Pure terror. I gave them to your family.

 I repeated slowly, my stomach starting to drop. Why, David? What’s wrong? Did they eat them? His voice cracked. Did Emma eat them? Did Max? Oh god. Oh god. Did they eat them? I don’t know. I dropped the box off around 7:00 last night. Jennifer said she’d save them for after the kids finished dinner.

 David, what’s he hung up? Just disconnected. No explanation. No goodbye. The dial tone buzzed in my ear. My hands started shaking. I set down my coffee cup. It rattled against the saucer. I’d raised this boy for 32 years. Changed his diapers when his mother left us when he was three. Worked two jobs. The post office during the day, stocking shelves at Kroger at night to put him through the University of Georgia. Watched him graduate.

 Walked him down the aisle when he married Jennifer 8 years ago. And something in that scream, something primal and desperate and terrified, told me everything I needed to know. Those chocolates weren’t a gift. They were a weapon. I grabbed my car keys with shaking hands. Dropped them twice before I got them into the ignition of my 2012 Honda Civic.

 Drove to David’s house on Pinewood Drive. 15minute drive that I made in eight. Running two red lights and a stop sign. Jennifer’s white Toyota Camry was gone from the driveway. I called her cell. It rang four times. When she answered, she was crying. Bill, she sobbed. Bill, we’re at Athens Regional Hospital. Emma and Max, they ate some of those chocolates you brought over.

 Three pieces each before I realized something was wrong. Emma said they tasted weird, like metal. like pennies. The doctors are running tests. My blood turned to ice. Actually felt it freeze in my veins. What kind of tests? Poison. They think the chocolates were poisoned. The word didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. Poison.

 Bill, I don’t understand. Where did you get those chocolates? Who sent them? I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words. Because if I said it out loud, if I told her that her husband, the father of her children, had sent poison chocolates to his own father, it would become real. I’m coming. I finally managed. I’m on my way, Bill. Her voice broke completely.

Where’s David? He’s not answering his phone. His office says he called in sick this morning. I need him here. The kids keep asking for their daddy. I’ll find him, I said. Just just take care of the kids. I’ll find David. I hung up, sat in my car in David’s empty driveway, stared at the house, the nice house in a good neighborhood.

 The house with the two-car garage and the fenced backyard and the swing set I’d helped David install 3 years ago. The house he’d paid for with money I didn’t know he had. I’m Bill Morrison, born 1953, raised in Athens. Never made much money, never needed much. Lived frugally, saved what I could. After 42 years at the post office, I had a decent pension, a paidoff house worth maybe $180,000, some savings, some stocks my brother had helped me buy, total estate value, about $420,000, not rich, but comfortable, more than enough for an old man living alone.

David was my only heir. He’d get everything when I died. We talked about it once, maybe 2 years ago, after I’d had a health scare, kidney stones, thought it might be cancer. The lawyer, Michael Chen, good man, practiced estate law in Athens for 28 years, had drawn up the papers while I was in the hospital. David had been there, sitting in the chair next to my bed, asking questions, looking at the documents.

 He’d seen the numbers, $420,000. I drove to Carol’s house, my ex-wife. We’d been divorced 29 years, but she still lived in the same little house on Baxter Street. Still hadn’t remarried. Still babyed David like he was 12 instead of 32. Her car was in the driveway. So was David’s black Nissan Alultima. I didn’t knock, just walked in. The door was unlocked.

Always was. David was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, still in his pajamas. Sunday morning, should have been at home with his family. He looked up when I walked in, saw me, went white as a sheet. We stared at each other for maybe 10 seconds. Why? I asked, he laughed. Actually laughed, high-pitched, desperate.

 Because I need the money now, Dad. Not when you finally die of old age in another decade. The words hit like a hammer. Money? Your inheritance? $420,000. I saw the papers when you were in the hospital with those kidney stones. The lawyer left them on the table next to your bed. He stood up and I could see it now. The desperation in his eyes.

 The wildness. I’m drowning, Dad. I’m drowning. Drowning in what? Gambling debts, online poker, sports betting. I’ve been doing it for 3 years. I’m down half a million dollars. The lone sharks. These aren’t the kind of guys who negotiate, Dad. They want their money. They’ve been to the house. They’ve threatened Jennifer.

 They’ve threatened the kids. My stomach dropped. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t ask. Ask for what? Your little nest egg. That wouldn’t even make a dent. He was yelling now. Pacing. I mortgaged the house without Jennifer knowing. Took out credit cards in her name, borrowed from her parents. I’m out of options, so you tried to murder me.

He stopped pacing, looked at me, and for a moment, just a moment, I saw something in his eyes. Shame, regret. Then it was gone. It would have been quick, he shouted. Painless. You’re 70 years old. What do you need 400 grand for? To sit in that shitty little house and watch TV? I need it now.

 I have a family to protect. You almost killed your children. His face twisted. That was your fault. He slammed his fist on the table. A coffee mug jumped. You were supposed to eat them, not share them like some saint. You never eat gifts. You always say they’re too fancy. I planned this for weeks. The rage in his voice, the entitlement, the complete absence of remorse.

 You almost killed Emma and Max, I said quietly. Your own children because you gave them the chocolates. You ruined everything. Carol appeared in the doorway. She’d been listening. Her face was pale, shocked. David, she whispered. What have you done? Shut up, Mom. He didn’t even look at her. kept his eyes on me. He deserves this. He’s lived his life. He’s old.

He’s got nothing to live for except watching us struggle. Something broke inside me. Not my heart that had already broken when I’d realized what he’d done. Something deeper. The part of me that was his father. The part that had loved him unconditionally for 32 years. That part died right there in Carol’s kitchen. I’m calling the police, I said.

No, you won’t. David smirked. Actually smirked. You’re too weak. You’ve always been weak. You’ve never punished me for anything. Never even spanked me when I was a kid. Remember that? Mom used to beg you to discipline me and you never did. He was right. I had been weak. I’d wanted to be the good parent, the one David loved.

 After Carol left, I’d overcompensated. Let him get away with things. Made excuses. I’d created this monster. You’re right, David, I said calmly. I have been weak. I turned and walked toward the door. See, I told you, he yelled after me. You won’t do anything you never do. Go home, old man. Forget this happened. I’ll figure out the debt myself.

 I got in my car, started the engine, sat there for a moment, then I called my lawyer. Michael, it’s Bill Morrison. I need you to do something for me today. Right now, Bill, it’s Sunday morning. I’m at church with my my son tried to poison me. He sent me chocolates laced with arsenic for my birthday. I gave them to his children.

 They’re in the hospital right now. Silence. Then I’m leaving church now. Where are you? I need to hire a private investigator. I need documentation, evidence, everything we can find. And Michael, my voice cracked. I need to change my will today. I’ll make some calls. Meet me at my office in an hour. I drove to Athens Regional Hospital.

 Found Jennifer in the pediatric wing, fourth floor. She was sitting between two beds. Emma on the left, 8 years old, dark hair like her mother. Max on the right, 6 years old, blonde like David had been as a child. Both of them had IVs. Both looked pale, sick. Jennifer stood when she saw me, hugged me tight. She was shaking.

 

 

 

 

 What did the doctor say? I asked. They’re running toxicology tests, blood work. They keep asking me where the chocolates came from. What brand? Whether I noticed anything unusual. She pulled back, looked at me. Bill, what’s going on? Where’s David? I couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not until I knew for sure.

 I don’t know. I lied. First lie I’d told her in 8 years of knowing her. A doctor appeared. Young woman, maybe 35, white coat, stethoscope around her neck. Name tag. Dr. Sarah Chen, pediatric emergency medicine. 8 years experience. Mr. Morrison. I’m Dr. Chen. I’ve been treating Emma and Max. What’s wrong with them? She glanced at Jennifer, then at me.

 Can we speak privately? No, Jennifer said immediately. Whatever you have to say, say it in front of me. Dr. Chen nodded. The toxicology panel came back. Both children tested positive for arsenic triioxide. significant levels. We’ve started collation therapy. That’s a treatment that helps remove heavy metals from the bloodstream. They got here quickly enough that the prognosis is good.

 But but what? My voice sounded hollow. The concentration in their system suggests a very high dosage in whatever they ingested. If they’d eaten more than three pieces each, if an adult had eaten a full serving, she paused. It would likely have been fatal. Jennifer made a sound. Not quite a scream. Something worse. Fatal, she repeated. Someone tried to kill them.

 The arsenic was in the chocolates, Dr. Chen said carefully. We had the hospital run tests on the remaining pieces from the box. Every single chocolate contains lethal levels of arsenic triioxide. This wasn’t accidental contamination. This was deliberate. I sat down hard in one of the waiting room chairs.

 The police have been notified, Dr. Chen continued. They’ll want to speak with you about where the chocolates came from. There will be an investigation. Two detectives arrive 20 minutes later. Detective James Rodriguez, Athens Clark County Police, Major Crimes Unit, 16 years on the force. Detective Patricia Morrison, same unit, 12 years experience.

 They interviewed Jennifer first in a private consultation room. She told them about the chocolates, how I’d brought them over last night, how the kids had eaten them before dinner because they couldn’t wait. Then they interviewed me. Mr. Morrison, where did you obtain the chocolates? Detective Rodriguez asked, “Notebook out, pen ready.

 My son sent them for my birthday. They arrived yesterday via courier.” “Your son, David Morrison, the children’s father?” “Yes, and you gave them to his family. I don’t like fancy chocolates. I thought they’d enjoy them more.” Rodriguez and Morrison exchanged a look. Mr. Morrison, Morrison said carefully.

 Are you aware that your son called you this morning? That he asked about the chocolates? My stomach dropped. How do you know that? We pulled phone records. Your son called you at 8:04 a.m. The call lasted 47 seconds. Then he immediately called his wife’s cell phone four times. She didn’t answer because she was already on her way to the hospital.

 “What did your son say on that call?” Rodriguez asked. I told them everything. The panic in David’s voice, his terror when I said I’d given the chocolates away. Mr. Morrison, I need to ask you something directly. Rodriguez leaned forward. Do you believe your son sent you poison chocolates? The room went silent. Even the background hospital noises seemed to fade.

 Yes, I said. I believe he tried to kill me. Jennifer gasped from the doorway. We all turned. She’d been listening. No, she whispered. No, that’s not possible. David wouldn’t. I spoke with him this morning, I said. At his mother’s house. He confessed. He has gambling debts, half a million dollars. He needs my inheritance.

 He said it would have been quick, painless, that I’m old and don’t need the money. Jennifer collapsed into a chair, started sobbing, shoulders shaking, hands over her face. He almost killed his own children. I continued, my voice flat, empty, and his only concern was that I’d ruined his plan by giving the chocolates away. Rodriguez stood.

 We need to bring your son in for questioning. Do you know where he is now? He was at his mother’s house, 2847 Baxter Street, Carol Morrison. We’ll send units there now. He looked at Jennifer. Mrs. Morrison, I know this is difficult, but we’ll need you to come to the station to give a formal statement. I want a divorce,” Jennifer said suddenly looked up at me with red swollen eyes.

 “Bill, I’m filing for divorce today. I don’t care what it takes. I’m taking the kids and we’re leaving. He’s never coming near them again.” 3 hours later, David was arrested at Carol’s house. Attempted murder, two counts of child endangerment, possession of a controlled substance. The police found more arsenic triioxide powder hidden in his car.

 He fought, screamed, claimed I was lying, that I was a scenile old man making up stories. Then they played his phone call recording, the 8:04 a.m. call, the one where he’d panicked. They’d subpoenaed it from his cell carrier. His lawyer, courtappointed young guy fresh out of law school, told him to stop talking, but David couldn’t help himself.

 In the interrogation room, I know because Rodriguez told me later, “David kept insisting it was my fault, that I’d ruined everything by being generous, that I should have eaten the chocolates myself.” He never once asked about his children. Michael Chen, my lawyer, worked fast. By Tuesday, we had a full report from the private investigator he’d hired.

 Patricia Walsh, former Atlanta PD detective, 23 years in law enforcement, now running her own PI firm. She’d found everything. Receipts from Artisan Chocolates of Atlanta, high-end chocolate shop in Buckhead. David had purchased a custom box 2 weeks ago, paid $340 in cash, text messages between David and someone named Rick discussing solving the problem and making it look natural.

 Rick turned out to be Ricardo Martinez, known Lone Shark, currently under investigation by the FBI. Bank records showing David had mortgaged the house for $180,000 without Jennifer’s knowledge. Forgery, she hadn’t signed the documents. Credit cards opened in Jennifer’s name. $47,000 in debt she didn’t know about. Online gambling accounts showing losses of $523,000 over 3 years.

 He’s been living a double life, Michael said, spreading the documents across his conference table. secret accounts, secret debts, criminal associations, and when it all came crashing down, he decided you were the solution. He’s my son, I said. The words felt empty. He stopped being your son when he put arsenic in chocolate and tried to kill you.

 The arraignment was Friday. David pleaded not guilty. His lawyer argued entrament, coercion, mental incompetence. The prosecutor, assistant DA Jennifer Walsh, no relation to the PI, 18 years prosecuting major crimes in Georgia, presented the evidence, the phone recordings, the chocolate receipt, the text messages, the arsenic powder in his car, the judge, Marcus Chen, superior court, 26 years on the bench, set bail at $500,000. David couldn’t make it.

 Sat in Clark County Jail awaiting trial. Jennifer filed for divorce on Monday. Emergency custody of the children, restraining order, preventing David from any contact. She moved herself and the kids in with her parents in Watkinsville. Changed her phone number. Changed the locks. Told the kids their daddy was sick and getting help.

 Emma asked me once, “Papa Bill, is Daddy going to jail?” “Yes, sweetheart.” “Because he he hurt us. Because he made very bad choices. I don’t want to see him anymore. You don’t have to.” 3 weeks after the poisoning, everything was ready. Michael had drawn up new estate documents. The private investigator had compiled a comprehensive report.

 The prosecutor had built her case. David had been calling me from jail. collect calls 10 15 times a day. I never answered. Let them all go to voicemail. The messages started apologetic. Dad, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please help me. Please post bail. Then angry. This is your fault.

 You should have just eaten the chocolates. Now my life is ruined. Then desperate. Dad, please. I need help. The guys I owe money to. They’re threatening mom. They know where she lives. Please just pay them. Use my inheritance. It’s going to be mine anyway. I saved every message. Forwarded them to the prosecutor. I decided I needed closure.

 needed to show David and maybe myself that I was done being weak. I invited everyone to Sunday dinner three weeks after the poisoning. Emma and Max were home from the hospital, still recovering but healthy. Jennifer had agreed to come. Even Carol, despite her protests that I was being too hard on David, I prepared dinner myself.

 Pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans. David’s favorite meal growing up. They arrived at 5:30 p.m. Jennifer helped the kids wash their hands. Carol set the table. Everyone tried to act normal, but the tension was suffocating. We sat down, said Grace. Habit from when the kids were smaller. Started eating. Then I stood up. I have an announcement to make.

 Emma looked up from her mashed potatoes. What is it, Papa Bill? I’m giving away my inheritance. Carol set down her fork. Bill, this isn’t the time to the kids. Emma and Max in trust until they’re 25. Jennifer’s hand flew to her mouth. The house, the savings, the stocks, the pension benefits, all of it. $423,000 split equally between Emma and Max Morrison. I pulled out the documents.

The new will, the trust documents, all signed and notorized. These are your children, I said, looking at Carol, looking at Jennifer. The children David tried to murder for money. Jennifer grabbed the papers. Read them. Started crying. Bill, you can’t. This is too much. It’s already done. Michael filed the paperwork yesterday.

 Legal and binding. Emma was confused. Papa Bill, why would Daddy try to hurt us? Because he wanted my money, sweetheart. And he was willing to hurt people to get it. I pulled out the rest of it. The hospital reports showing arsenic poisoning, the toxicology results, the police report, the evidence the private investigator had gathered, receipts from the chocolate shop, text messages to the lone shark, the phone recording where David had panicked when I’d told him about giving away the chocolates.

 I spread it all across the dining room table. Let Jennifer see it. Let Carol see it. Made it real. David sent me chocolates laced with arsenic for my 70th birthday, I said clearly, calmly. He intended to kill me, to inherit my estate, to pay off his gambling debts. When I gave those chocolates to his children instead, he didn’t rush to the hospital to save them.

 He went to his mother’s house to hide. And when I confronted him, he blamed me for ruining his plan. Jennifer was sobbing. Full body sobs. Emma and Max look terrified. Carol was shaking her head. He’s still your son, Bill. He made a mistake. He needs help, not he needs prison, I interrupted. He tried to commit murder. He’s a danger to everyone around him.

You can’t do this to him. He’s family. No, I said he stopped being family the day he chose $400,000 over his children’s lives. The doorbell rang. I’d called Detective Rodriguez that morning. Told him I had more evidence. Told him about the voicemails. Asked him to come by at 6 p.m. I opened the door. Rodriguez stood there with Detective Morrison.

 

 

 

 

 Two uniformed officers behind them. Mr. Morrison, Rodriguez said. We have a few follow-up questions about your son’s case. Come in, please. I have people here who need to hear this. They walked into the dining room. Jennifer stood up. Carol went pale. Mrs. David Morrison, Rodriguez addressed Jennifer. We want to inform you that additional charges are being filed against your husband.

 Based on evidence gathered from his jail calls and the ongoing investigation, we’re adding criminal conspiracy and witness tampering. He’s been making calls to known associates trying to intimidate witnesses. He called me, Jennifer said quietly. 3 days ago from jail told me if I testified against him, I’d regret it. I recorded it. We’ll need that recording.

 She pulled out her phone, played it. David’s voice cold and threatening, telling his wife to remember what happens to rats. telling her the lone sharks knew where her parents lived. The children heard their father’s voice. Max started crying. Emma hugged her mother. Based on this recording and the existing evidence, Rodriguez continued, “The DA is prepared to seek the maximum sentence.

 25 years for attempted murder, additional time for the child endangerment charges, the conspiracy, the witness tampering.” Carol made a sound like she’d been hit. “That’s insane. You’re destroying his life. Ma’am, your son destroyed his own life when he put poison in chocolate and sent it to his father,” Rodriguez said firmly.

 “Our investigation shows clear premeditation, clear intent, clear lack of remorse. The only reason we’re not charging him with attempted murder of his own children is because he didn’t know they’d eat the chocolates, but the child endangerment charges are serious enough.” He turned to me. “Mr. Morrison, the trial is set for 6 weeks from now.

The prosecutor will need you to testify. Are you prepared to do that?” “Yes,” I said. “I’ll testify. Even though he’s your son, he stopped being my son the day he tried to kill me. 6 weeks later, the trial lasted 4 days. The prosecutor presented overwhelming evidence. The chocolate receipt, the arsenic powder in David’s car, the text messages, the phone recordings, my testimony, Jennifer’s testimony, the hospital records showing Emma and Max had been poisoned.

 David’s lawyer tried to argue temporary insanity. Tried to claim the gambling addiction had made him desperate. Tried to paint him as a victim of predatory lenders. The jury didn’t buy it. deliberated for three hours, guilty on all counts. The sentencing hearing was two weeks later. Judge Chen looked at David with pure disgust. Mr.

 Morrison, you attempted to murder your own father for money. When that plan failed and your children were poisoned instead, you showed no remorse, no concern for their welfare, only anger that your plan had been disrupted. You are a danger to society and to your own family. He sentenced David to 20 years in prison for attempted murder, an additional 5 years for child endangerment.

 to run consecutively, 25 years total. David would be 57 years old when he got out. His children would be adults. His wife would have moved on. His life would be over. As they led him away in handcuffs, David looked at me one last time. “I hope you’re happy,” he said, voice flat, empty. “I’m not happy,” I told him.

 “But your children are safe, and they’ll have money for college when they turn 25. Money you tried to steal. That’s justice. They’ll forget about me, probably. But they’ll remember what you did, and they’ll never let anyone hurt them for money again.” The guards took him away. I walked out of that courtroom with Jennifer beside me. She’d remarried.

 Nice guy, accountant, good with the kids. Emma and Max called him dad now. Called me Papa Bill. We drove to my house. The house I’d almost died in. The house that was now in a trust for the grandchildren. I’d be allowed to live there until I died. Then it would belong to Emma and Max along with everything else I’d saved for 42 years.

 Not much, not compared to the wealth some people had, but enough to send two kids to college. Enough to give them a start in life. Carol called me that night. I hope you’re satisfied. Your own son is going to prison. My son tried to kill me. Then he almost killed his children. He brought this on himself. You could have forgiven him.

Could have helped him. I helped him for 32 years. Made excuses. Enabled him. Look where that got us. He’s still your blood. Blood doesn’t mean anything when it’s poisoned with arsenic and greed. I hung up. Blocked her number. She’d chosen David over truth. Let her live with that choice. I’m writing this 2 years after the poisoning.

 Emma is 10 now. Max is eight. They’re thriving. Therapy helped. Time helped. Distance from their father helped. They ask about him sometimes. Is daddy still in prison? Yes. Will he ever come out in many years when you’re much older? Will we have to see him? Only if you want to. We don’t want to. Then you won’t have to.

 David writes letters sometimes to Jennifer, to the kids, to me. Jennifer throws them away unopened. She got a restraining order that extends to written correspondence. The kids don’t know he writes. Don’t need to know. The money sits in trust growing invested in index funds. By the time Emma turns 25, her half will be worth maybe $300,000.

Enough to buy a house, start a business, live without debt. Max is half the same. They’ll never have to struggle the way I struggled. Never have to work two jobs to make ends meet. Never have to choose between eating and saving. That’s what David’s greed bought them. Freedom. People ask me if I’m angry.

 If I hate my son. I don’t. Hate requires caring. Anger requires connection. David severed that connection when he dissolved arsenic into Belgian chocolate and mailed it to me with a birthday card that said, “To the best dad in the world.” He wanted $400,000 badly enough to kill for it. Instead, his children got every penny, and he got 25 years to think about what he’d lost.

 I call that justice. He said, “I was too weak to punish him, too soft to stand up for myself, too pathetic to fight back.” He was right about who I’d been. But he forgot that even weak men have limits. And when you cross them, when you poison your own father and accidentally poison your own children, weakness becomes something else, becomes strength, becomes justice.

 Becomes a 70-year-old postal worker standing in a courtroom and watching his son go to prison. David wanted my inheritance so badly, he was willing to kill for it. Now his children have it all, and he’ll never touch a single dollar. The boy I raised died the day he chose money over his children’s lives.

 I’m just glad I lived long enough to make sure everyone knew.