The Trusting Husband and the Bottle of Poison
“We’re here, Mum,” said Leo, opening the car door for his mother.
Felicity stepped out and gazed up at the windows of her flat. She sighed.
“What’s wrong, Mum? Feeling poorly again?”
“No, son.” She met his eyes—his worry was genuine. “Lived my whole life in this flat. First with my parents, then with my husband. Brought you home from the hospital here. You were such a sweet little thing.” She paused. “Remember when we picked out the curtains after the renovation? And now…” Her eyes flicked back to the windows.
How many hours had she spent staring from the kitchen window, watching for her Nigel? The moment she spotted him crossing the courtyard, she’d check if supper was still warm. Always left the kettle on the gas—Nigel loved scalding tea, always with lump sugar. Never took it sweet or with sweets. Country roots, that was it.
“Come on, Mum,” her son said, nudging her arm. “Claire’s probably waiting.”
“Claire…” Felicity exhaled the name. “Not once did she visit me. Was she waiting for me to die?”
“Enough, Mum,” Leo cut in sharply.
They climbed to the second floor of the old townhouse. Leo pushed open the heavy front door, its surface still marked where the brass nameplate had once hung: “Albert Whitmore. Professor.”
Her daughter-in-law peeked out from the living room, huffed, and vanished.
“Go on in, Mum. I’ll make tea—with lemon, just how you like it,” Leo said.
Felicity shuffled into the small bedroom, once her son’s, and before that, her own as a girl. She sank onto the worn sofa, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
“What happens now?” she wondered.
***
Felicity had married late. Her father, the professor, saw her as his successor—wanted her in academia, carrying on his work. Plenty of men had courted her. “Don’t rush, love. They’re after your father’s name, not you,” her mother would say.
But at thirty, she fell for an awkward young graduate student. Her father adored him, predicted great things. That’s likely why he’d approved the match. A year later, her father retired, passing his chair to his son-in-law. He and Mum moved to the countryside, leaving the flat to the newlyweds.
Life with Nigel was good—except they couldn’t conceive. Felicity had given up hope when it finally happened. They were overjoyed! When Leo was born, academia faded. Nigel wanted her home, raising their son.
He worked tirelessly at the university, publishing papers, books. Envy followed. By the time Leo—named for his grandfather—reached secondary school, Nigel dropped dead of a heart attack. The whispers broke him: upstart, fraud, riding his father-in-law’s coattails.
Felicity was left alone with Leo. She never returned to teaching—what kind of scholar was she now? Sold her parents’ country home. Money wasn’t an issue. Then Leo graduated, got a job.
When he brought Claire home, Felicity knew it was serious. No use arguing. Her son was besotted. Instinct told her to distrust the girl. “Where’s she from? Who are her people?” Claire’s answers were evasive. Smitten, Leo told her to drop it.
No relatives came to the wedding. Not one.
“Tense relationship with her mum and stepdad. Her real father’s ill,” Leo explained.
Felicity relented. Her boy was happy—that’s what mattered. She’d learn to love Claire.
She cooked for the growing family, but Claire wrinkled her nose. “Watching my figure,” she’d say, barely eating.
“Who am I cooking for, then?” Felicity grumbled.
“Mum, leave her be. Let her eat what she wants,” Leo defended—though he often dined out himself.
Claire supposedly worked somewhere. Out in the mornings, back by lunch—always with shopping bags, a fresh hairstyle.
She and Leo used to talk for hours. He’d share plans, ask advice. Now he holed up with Claire, barely spoke.
“Be grateful they’re not asking to sell the flat,” a friend consoled.
Felicity’s heart ached. She couldn’t bear to lose the high-ceilinged townhouse where generations of her family had lived. But who knew? Maybe Claire’s whispers would turn Leo against her.
Then came the news—Claire was expecting. Felicity relaxed. A baby meant she’d be needed. No rush to sell. She swapped rooms with the young couple. A child needed space.
But then she started sleeping at odd hours—napping midday, waking groggy. Her mind slowed. She’d misplace things: the phone book, her glasses—once even finding them in the fridge. Afraid to tell Leo.
Giving up the main room felt like surrendering authority. She stayed tucked away, dozing. Weak limbs, dizzy spells. Embarrassing accidents. Never had she been like this.
Once, she woke to a figure by the bed—thought it was Nigel. Claire’s laughter startled her.
When Leo came home, Claire rushed to him. “She can’t make it to the loo on time! Thought I was Nigel!”
Felicity tried explaining, but her words slurred. Leo called an ambulance.
The hospital found nothing wrong. By the next day, she was lucid. No cause for her symptoms. Released after a week. Plenty of time to think.
***
“Mum, brought your tea,” Leo said.
She opened her eyes. He stood with a cup and biscuits.
“Ta, love,” she smiled.
After drinking, weakness dragged her under. “Just tired,” she thought, eyelids heavy.
She woke to darkness. The flat silent. How long had she slept? Head thick, stomach burning. Rushed home from hospital only to feel worse. “Is this even illness?”
In the kitchen, she peered into the fridge—no appetite. Had she eaten today? Memory foggy. Warm milk, bread, salt—comfort from childhood. The fire in her gut eased.
Back to bed, back to sleep. Morning: a stop by the kitchen. Claire brewing tea.
“Off to work today?” Felicity asked.
“Prenatal appointment,” Claire said.
Standing, Felicity noticed the curve under her robe.
“Five months?”
“What?” Claire turned, blank.
Felicity coughed, choked. Couldn’t rise. Claire was gone. She barely made it to bed, slept till evening.
Awoke to darkness. Another day lost. Needed to talk to Leo—but he wasn’t home.
“Late meeting,” Claire said.
“At this hour?” Words tangled.
The landThe phone rang, and when Felicity answered, a cold voice informed her that Leo had been in an accident—and as her blood turned to ice, she caught Claire’s smirk from the doorway, realizing too late the poison had never been in the tea.
