The next morning, after he left for work, I checked the kitchen drawer. The amber bottle was still there, half full, no label. My hands shook as I sealed it in a plastic bag and called my lawyer.
Within a week, my accounts were transferred, the locks changed, and a safety deposit box opened in my name alone.
“The doctor tested your tea,” I said evenly. “It’s filled with sedatives.”
For a moment, he looked at me — not surprised, not afraid, but disappointed, as though I had ruined something delicate.
“You don’t understand, Lillian,” he said softly. “You think too much, worry too much. I just wanted to help you relax… to keep you calm.”
“By drugging me?” I asked.
He shrugged, as if I’d exaggerated. “You were happier that way.”
That was the last night he ever spent in my home.
The Healing
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