Chapter 1 — When the Spider Plant Turned Black

My mother-in-law persisted in brewing a pot of strong tea every single day, letting it sit overnight without ever throwing it away, only to dilute it with warm water the following morning and bring it straight to my feet. Come here, child, soak your feet, she would say, it is very good for your health. Finding this whole ritual tedious and deeply annoying, I always waited until she turned her back before grabbing the basin and sneaking out to dump the entire contents into a sickly, half-dead spider plant sitting on our balcony. A month later, that very same spider plant was growing like an absolute lunatic, its cascading fronds trailing down more than two meters, the leaves turned a shade of green so dark it was almost black. Every neighbor who happened to walk past would stop in their tracks to take photographs. My birth mother came over to visit one afternoon, caught sight of that lush plant, and her expression shifted abruptly. She grabbed me by the arm, dragged me straight into the bedroom, and slammed the door shut, her voice trembling as she spoke. That dark tea your mother-in-law keeps brewing, have you ever actually smelled it closely?

My mother-in-law possessed an unyielding habit of brewing a pot of dark, dense tea after every evening meal. The pot itself was crafted from aged purple clay, its spout missing a tiny chip, yet she treasured it like pure gold; anyone who dared brush against it would earn a withering glare. She would sit quietly at the dining table, slowly pouring boiling water into the vessel. This was no ordinary beverage purchased from a common market. The liquid brewed inside was pitch black, the twisted leaves resembling withered, dried beetles, and when hit by scalding water, they released a potent stench that was simultaneously bitter and acrid. The very first time I caught a whiff of that odor, my stomach heaved violently, threatening to empty itself right then and there. Yet she would simply cradle the teapot, her eyes crinkling into a smile as she insisted that it was precious medicine that could not be bought anywhere else. I asked her once, Mother, if you drink tea this strong, how can you possibly sleep at night? Her hand paused mid-motion. She raised her gaze to meet mine. The glance was fleeting, like a sharp needle flashing across my skin. I do not drink it, she replied. I froze in utter astonishment. She lowered her head again to secure the lid, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the afternoon weather.

It is for you to use.

My chopsticks hovered helplessly in mid-air. My husband, Chen Yan, was busy shoveling rice into his mouth; upon hearing her words, he exhibited no reaction whatsoever, merely mumbling through a full mouth that his mother knew everything about these old traditions and if she said it was good, it had to be good. The older woman placed the teapot firmly in the corner of the table, pressing a small saucer tightly over the lid. Her movements were intensely meticulous, as though whatever lay trapped inside were not mere herbal water, but a living creature terrified of escaping. By the following dawn, she would pour that leftover, overnight brew straight into my foot-soaking basin, topping it off with a splash of hot water. The moment the warm water hit the dark liquid, the room would instantly be overwhelmed by that heavy, suffocating bitterness. She would carry the steaming tub directly to where I sat, unfailingly repeating her familiar phrase.

Come here, soak your feet, child, it is good for your health.

Having been married for only half a year, living under their roof meant I constantly had to walk on eggshells, minding every single action. With her acting so thoroughly hospitable, I simply lacked the heart to refuse her outright. The first time, I forced myself to grit my teeth and endure the full ten minutes. The exact instant my skin made contact with the liquid, an eerie, bone-chilling coldness crept up from the soles of my feet, traveling relentlessly along my calves. Despite her repeated assertions that she had mixed in warm water, that basin perpetually felt devoid of adequate heat. Once the soak was over, the tops of my feet felt completely numb, and tiny tea sediments stubbornly clung between my toes. I washed myself thoroughly with clean water twice afterward, yet that foul, clinging smell still refused to leave my skin. That evening, Chen Yan leaned in close, wrinkling his nose in displeasure.

Why do you smell like medicinal herbs?

A wave of irritation washed over me, and I demanded to know what on earth that concoction was since his mother brewed it every single day. Chen Yan merely rolled over in bed.

Just some old folk remedy for the elderly, do not read too much into it.

But my feet go entirely numb after soaking in it.

Were your hands and feet not always freezing cold before? Mother is simply helping regulate your internal circulation.

With that, he drifted off to sleep. The bedroom plunged into heavy silence. I stared fixedly at the sliver of light cutting through the curtain gap, every passing thought only fueling my annoyance. The next morning, when my mother-in-law once again approached with that basin of murky liquid, I refused to slide my feet inside. I remained firmly seated on the sofa, deliberately kicking my slippers aside and pretending to wait for her departure. She stood right beside me, fixing me with an unblinking stare.

Go on, soak them.

I forced a smile.

Mother, the water is a bit too hot, let me wait a moment for it to cool down.

She reached out a hand to test the temperature.

It is just right.

I pulled my feet back further.

I am terribly sensitive to heat.

The smile on her face faded just a fraction.

Such a delicate princess.

Without another word, she turned and headed to the kitchen to wash the dishes. Hearing the rush of the faucet, I immediately hoisted the basin, tiptoeing stealthily toward the balcony. Tucked in the corner sat the spider plant. It was the very same plant I had brought along when I first moved in, teetering on the edge of life and death, its leaf tips completely withered and yellowed, the soil packed rock-hard. I had intended to repot it the very first weekend, but busyness had continually gotten in the way. Without hesitation, I poured the entire basin of overnight tea straight into the pot. The dark brown liquid sank hungrily into the parched dirt, leaving tea sediment smeared across the base of the stems like a layer of filthy grime. At best, I figured, the plant would simply shed a few more dying leaves. Yet by dusk that evening, while stepping out to retrieve some hanging laundry, I noticed that the fronds of the spider plant seemed to have straightened and lifted noticeably.

I paid little mind to the sudden transformation of the houseplant. Vegetation could be fickle like that; sometimes a dying organism given a sudden drenching of moisture would manage a brief, deceptive burst of vitality before finally giving up. By the morning of the third day, my mother-in-law brought out the foot-soaking basin as she did religiously every morning. This time, however, she did not walk away immediately. She lingered by the coffee table, resting her hands on the rim of the tub, her eyes locked intently onto my feet.

Do not complain about the heat today.

My heart tightened in my chest, but I maintained a placid smile on my face.

Rest assured, Mother, I am soaking them right now.

She pulled up the single armchair opposite me and sat down. Her posture made it abundantly clear that she intended to stand guard until she actually witnessed my feet plunge into the water. Reluctantly, I began to slide off my slippers. The moment my toes brushed the surface, that grim, spectral chill enveloped me once again. I frowned involuntarily and drew my feet back.

Mother, I need to use the restroom for a moment.

Her gaze darkened considerably.

Soak your feet first, then go. I cannot hold it anymore.

Clutching my stomach in feigned urgency, I stood up and hoisted the entire basin, marching straight toward the bathroom. What are you carrying the basin in there for? she called out behind me. I glanced back, struggling to keep my voice sounding entirely casual.

I will leave it by the door so it is ready when I come out, keeps the living room clear.

She took two steps after me before halting. I slipped inside the bathroom and bolted the door firmly from the inside. The space outside quickly fell completely silent. I pressed my ear against the wood to listen. From the kitchen came the faint, rhythmic clinking of cooking utensils. I placed the tub down inside the shower stall, fully intending to dump the contents straight down the drain. Yet as that familiar, pungent odor wafted up into my nostrils, my thoughts drifted unexpectedly to the spider plant out on the balcony. Driven by an inexplicable impulse, I entirely changed my mind. I pushed open the small frosted window of the bathroom, using all my strength to maneuver the heavy basin through the opening. Directly outside lay the corner of the balcony. Bending low, I slowly tipped the container, pouring the dark tea bit by bit into the flowerpot below. The sound of the falling liquid was barely audible. The spider plant leaves shuddered. Two particular leaves, whose tips had previously been withered and brown, suddenly appeared as though smeared with oil, glowing with an intense, vibrant emerald hue. I stared at them unblinkingly for several long seconds, an icy shiver rippling down my spine. From beyond the bathroom door, my mother-in-law's voice rapped sharply against the wood.

Why are you taking so long in there?

Panicking, I quickly turned on the showerhead, caught a small amount of clean tap water in the basin, and dipped my feet in briefly to wet them.

I am done, I am coming out now, Mother.

When I stepped out, my mother-in-law swept her gaze from the tub down to my damp feet. Did you soak them? she inquired. I nodded. Suddenly, she crouched down, dragged her finger across the remaining moisture pooled at the bottom of the basin, and brought it up to her nose to sniff. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs. The tub contained only plain tap water, carrying at most a faint lingering scent from my own skin. After inhaling deeply, my mother-in-law's expression darkened with unmistakable displeasure.

Did you dilute this with extra water?

I put on a look of utter incomprehension.

Of course not.

She stared at me fixedly for a long, suffocating moment before abruptly letting out a cold chuckle.

No matter, I will brew it much stronger for you tomorrow.

That very afternoon, while I sat mindlessly scrolling through my phone in the living room, my mother-in-law paced back and forth across the balcony several times. She did not touch the spider plant. She simply stood beside the pot, keeping her head lowered as she studied it in silence. Through the glass door, I watched her every move with a growing sense of dread.