My brother’s new girlfriend brought a homemade potato salad to our barbecue. The next day, everyone got sick. Later, there was an awful stench coming from the kitchen. As I opened the trash, I found hidden at the bottom packets of expired mayonnaise.I stared at the packets, wondering how they had ended up in the salad. Had she not noticed the expiration dates? Or worse, did she knowingly use them?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized something was off. My brother’s girlfriend seemed sweet enough, but she had a strange air of nervousness that night. She kept glancing around, always asking if people liked the salad, almost obsessively. At first, I chalked it up to wanting to make a good impression, but now I wasn’t so sure.Curiosity getting the better of me, I decided to ask my brother about it. He shrugged it off, laughing, “She’s not much of a cook. Probably didn’t check the dates.”But that didn’t sit right with me. The stench still lingered in the house, stronger near the refrigerator. I opened it up and checked behind the food. There, tucked away, was another container. It was more potato salad, but this batch was untouched—and oddly, it didn’t smell like it had gone bad. In fact, it looked perfectly fine.Then, I noticed something even stranger. Written in faint marker on the container’s lid were the initials “S.P.”That wasn’t my brother’s girlfriend’s name.Who had really made the salad? And why had she brought it, pretending it was hers? My mind raced through possibilities, none of them good.I decided to confront her. When I brought it up casually the next time she was over, she froze, her face going pale. She stammered something about wanting to make a good impression, but there was a nervous edge to her voice.That’s when I realized—this wasn’t about making a good impression at all.
