My husband had been drugging me every night… One day, I pretended to swallow the pill and lay still, fully awake. I watched him leave the bedroom at 2 a.m. I followed him downstairs, and what I saw there left me completely frozen…
I had always trusted Ethan. For ten years of marriage, he had been the calm in every storm, the man who brewed my morning coffee and reminded me to take my vitamins each night. So when he began insisting I take a “new prescription” to help with my stress, I didn’t question it—at first. But soon, every night after swallowing the pill, my body grew heavy in a way sleep never had before. My memories blurred. Whole evenings vanished.
I forced myself to wait thirty seconds, then slipped out of bed. My limbs felt foreign, half-numb from weeks of sedatives, but adrenaline pushed me forward. Each step down the carpeted stairs felt louder than a gunshot. I kept my breath shallow, afraid even the air between us might betray me.
From the bottom of the staircase, I saw him in the kitchen—his back turned, his movements strangely deliberate. He wasn’t making food. He wasn’t cleaning. He was organizing small glass vials on the counter. Dozens of them. My prescription bottles were there too, except the labels were peeled off. Ethan carefully poured something clear from one vial into another, humming under his breath like he was performing a routine task.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn’t sleep medication. This wasn’t normal. Then he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a thick folder—one with my name written in his handwriting.
He opened it. Inside were pages of notes. Photos. Schedules tracking my behavior, my drowsiness, my reactions.
I stepped closer without meaning to, and that’s when it happened—Ethan stopped humming. His shoulders stiffened. Slowly, he began to turn toward the staircase.
His eyes met mine.
And he realized I wasn’t asleep. Continue reading…
