There were cookies, a sweet note, and a birthday celebration. But days later, my sister’s voice turned to panic. ‘Please tell me she didn’t eat them all.’ I said, ‘No—your son did.’ Her scream nearly shattered the phone. My daughter Mia turned seven last week. We kept it small—just balloons, pizza, and a few cousins in the backyard. My sister Laura couldn’t make it, but she dropped off a tin of cookies the day before, wrapped in gold ribbon with a handwritten note: “Happy Birthday, sweet Mia! Eat as many as you like. Love, Auntie Laura.” They were gorgeous. Little sugar cookies shaped like stars, frosted in soft pastel colors. Mia was excited but distracted by the other sweets at the party, so we saved them for later. Three days passed. The cookies sat untouched on the kitchen counter in their tin. That afternoon, Laura called. I was washing dishes. “Hey!” I greeted her. “You missed a fun party. Thanks again for the cookies!” There was a pause. “Did… Mia eat any?” she asked carefully. I laughed. “No, actually. Your kid came by earlier and ate all of them!” Another pause. “Wait—what do you mean?” she asked, her voice sharper now. I chuckled. “Evan came by, remember? He was playing in the yard with Mia yesterday. I let him take the tin home. You didn’t know?” And that’s when it happened. Laura’s voice rose sharply, a scream I’ve never heard from her in my life. “Oh my God—TAKE HIM TO THE HOSPITAL!” I dropped the sponge. “What?” Her voice was frantic. “The cookies weren’t for Mia. They—” she choked, “—they weren’t for kids at all!” “What the hell are you talking about?” “I made two batches!” she cried. “Two! The ones for Mia are still in my fridge—I forgot to switch them. Those weren’t sugar cookies. They were—edibles. I made them for Tyler. For stress. THC cookies!” I froze. Evan was only six. And he had eaten every last one..
I was already grabbing my keys when I heard Laura sobbing on the other end.
“How many did he eat?” she yelled.
“All of them—there were like eight, maybe nine,” I stammered, heart pounding as I ran out the door.
“I didn’t think—I didn’t mean—oh God, they’re strong. Tyler only eats half at a time. They’re not mild, Amy. You need to get him to the ER now.”
Evan lived just two streets over. I didn’t even knock—I ran straight through the front door. Laura was already pulling up behind me, her husband Tyler jumping out of their car.
We found Evan on the couch, curled up under a blanket. His eyes were half open, unfocused. He wasn’t responding.
“He said he felt weird last night,” Tyler whispered, panicked. “But then he slept all day—”
Laura burst into tears. “He was high. Our son was stoned for a full day and we didn’t even know.”
We rushed him to the emergency room.
They ran every test. He was conscious, groggy, dehydrated. His heart rate was elevated but stable. The doctor gave fluids, monitored him for hours.
“He’ll be okay,” they said. “Just keep him hydrated and calm. It’s going to take time.”
Laura couldn’t stop shaking. Neither could I.
On the way home, she finally broke the silence.
“I should’ve labeled them. I should’ve—God, Amy, I could’ve—” she swallowed, “—I could’ve killed your daughter.”
“But you didn’t,” I said quietly. “And I let a six-year-old eat mystery cookies. This is on me too.”
No charges. No reports.
But something broke between us that day.
Evan recovered. The story was never told to the rest of the family. It became our quiet shame.
But things weren’t the same with Laura.
She became distant. Anxious. She stopped answering calls, missed family dinners, canceled Mia’s sleepover last minute. Something in her demeanor changed—she was scared all the time.
It wasn’t guilt. It was fear.
One day, she showed up at my door without warning. Pale, eyes wild.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
I let her in. She sat at the table, hands trembling.
“I didn’t tell you the full truth. About the cookies.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“There were two tins. One was for Mia. One was for Tyler. I baked them on the same day.”
“Right.”
“But… I made a third batch,” she said quietly. “I made them… because I was angry.”
I blinked. “At who?”
Laura looked up. “At you.”
“You always criticize my parenting. You talk about Evan like he’s your second kid. I’ve seen the way you undermine me, even when you don’t realize it. I was hurt. Resentful. I told myself it was harmless. Just a little extra in the frosting.”
I stared at her.
“What the hell does that mean, Laura?”
She began to cry.
“I added CBD oil to the cookies I brought you. Not THC—just enough to calm Mia down. I thought she’d just get sleepy. That was the plan. I just wanted you to stop saying she was ‘high energy’ and ‘unfocused.’ I wanted you to see what it’s like when she’s calm.”
I stood up slowly.
“You drugged my daughter.”
She looked up at me, tears falling freely.
“I thought it was safe.”
“But Evan ate them instead.”
I walked to the door and opened it.
“I don’t care why. I want you to stay away from us.”
She didn’t argue.
She left.
And now I look at every treat twice. I trust no one blindly.
