The Trusting Husband and the Vial of Poison
“We’re here, Mum,” Leo said, opening the car door for his mother.
Agatha stepped out and raised her eyes to the windows of her flat. She sighed.
“What’s wrong, Mum? Feeling bad again?”
“No, son.” She searched his eyes—they held genuine concern. “I’ve lived my whole life in this flat. First with my parents, then with my husband. I brought you home from the hospital here. You were such a sweet baby.” She paused. “Remember when we bought those curtains after the renovation? And now…” Her gaze drifted back to the windows.
How many hours had she spent staring from the kitchen window, watching for her Edward? The moment she spotted him crossing the courtyard, she’d check if dinner was still warm. She always left the kettle on the gas—Edward loved his tea scalding, always with sugar cubes. None of that fancy stuff. A habit from his country roots.
“Come on, Mum,” Leo interrupted her thoughts, gently touching her arm. “Emily’s probably waiting.”
“Emily…” Agatha exhaled. “She never visited me. Just waited for me to die?”
“Mum, enough,” Leo cut her off sharply.
They climbed to the second floor of the old townhouse. Leo opened the heavy oak door, its surface marked by the ghosts of screws and the brass plaque that once bore her father’s name: *”Professor Harold Whitmore.”*
Her daughter-in-law poked her head out from the bedroom, sniffed, and disappeared.
“Go on in, Mum. I’ll make tea—with lemon, the way you like it,” Leo said.
Agatha stepped into the small room that had once been her son’s, and before that, her own childhood bedroom. She sank onto the worn sofa, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.
*What now?*
***
Agatha had married late. Her father, the professor, had seen her as his successor—destined for academia, his projects. Many men courted her. “Don’t rush, love. It’s your father’s name they want, not you,” her mother warned.
But at thirty, she fell for an awkward young research assistant. Her father adored him, predicted greatness. That was likely why he’d approved the marriage. A year later, her father retired, leaving the department to his son-in-law. Her parents moved to the countryside, leaving the flat to the newlyweds.
Life with Edward was good—except they couldn’t conceive. Agatha had nearly given up when it happened. Such joy! Once Leo was born, academia faded. Edward wanted her home, raising their son.
He worked tirelessly, writing papers, books. Enemies emerged. When Leo—named for his grandfather—was in secondary school, Edward died of a heart attack. The whispers had worn him down: *upstart, fraud, riding his father-in-law’s coattails.* He couldn’t bear it.
Agatha was left alone with Leo. She never returned to the department—what kind of lecturer could she be now? She’d forgotten it all. Sold her parents’ house after they passed. Money wasn’t an issue. Then Leo graduated, found work.
When he brought Emily home, Agatha knew it was serious. No use arguing. Her son was besotted. A mother’s intuition prickled—something wasn’t right. *Where’s she from? Who are her parents?* Emily’s answers were vague. Leo begged her to stop interrogating his fiancée.
Agatha disliked that none of Emily’s relatives came to the wedding.
“She’s estranged from her mum and stepdad. Her real father’s ill,” Leo defended.
So Agatha relented. Leo was happy—that’s all that mattered. She’d learn to love Emily, if only for his sake.
She cooked for the growing family, but Emily wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat pies. Watching my figure.” She barely ate at all.
“Then who am I cooking for?” Agatha fumed.
“Mum, leave her alone. Let her eat what she wants,” Leo sided with his wife—though he often dined out.
Emily supposedly had a job. Left in the morning, returned by lunch with shopping bags, a new hairstyle.
Agatha and Leo used to talk for hours. He shared his dreams, sought advice. Now he stayed holed up with Emily.
“Be grateful they’re not demanding to sell the flat,” a friend consoled.
Agatha clutched her chest. She couldn’t bear losing the high-ceilinged townhouse with its grand staircase, where generations had lived. But who knew what whispers might poison Leo?
Then came the news: Emily was pregnant. Agatha relaxed. A child meant they’d need her—no flat sale yet. She swapped rooms, handing the master to the couple. Space for the baby.
But Agatha began to notice changes. She slept constantly, even by day. Woke foggy-headed, slow.
She’d reach for the phone book—vanished. Find it days later in plain sight. Glasses turned up in the fridge. Had *she* put them there? She feared telling Leo.
With the room swap, she’d surrendered more than space. Now she barely left the cramped quarters, sleeping endlessly. The far room made even bathroom trips a struggle—her legs numb, head spinning. She wasn’t old—this wasn’t normal.
One night, Agatha woke to a figure by the bed. She thought it was Edward—until Emily’s laugh hissed in the dark.
When Leo returned, Emily spun tales: his mother couldn’t make it to the loo, mistook shadows for ghosts. *She’s lost it.*
Agatha tried to explain, but her tongue felt thick. Leo called an ambulance.
In hospital, tests showed nothing. By morning, she was lucid. A week later, discharged. No cause found for the dizziness, nausea, weakness.
Agatha had time to think.
***
“Mum, tea.” Leo’s voice roused her. He held a cup and biscuits.
“Thank you, love.”
After drinking, the fog returned. *Just tired from hospital,* she thought, drifting off.
She woke to darkness. The flat silent. Morning or evening? Her head was lead. Stomach burning. She’d been better in hospital—why was this back?
In the kitchen, she found Emily steeping tea.
“Don’t you have work?” Agatha asked.
“Prenatal appointment,” Emily said, pulling her robe tight.
Agatha’s breath caught—that rounded belly hadn’t been there yesterday.
“Five months along?”
Emily froze.
Agatha choked, coughing violently. By the time she steadied, Emily was gone. She barely made it to bed, sleeping until evening.
Leo wasn’t home. “Late meeting,” Emily said.
The landline rang—a relic from another time. The hospital: Leo had been in an accident…
Emily clutched her stomach, crumpling. Agatha hesitated—save her son or the girl who hated her?
At the hospital, Leo was conscious but couldn’t feel his legs. Doctors were baffled.
Emily took one look and fled. Outside, she turned on Agatha.
“This is *your* fault,” she spat, eyes venomous.
Agatha spent days at Leo’s side. At home only to sleep. Oddly, her mind cleared. No more fog.
Emily visited once. Spoke to doctors, then vanished.
Tests showed nothing. “Stress reaction,” they concluded. “Recovery at home might help.”
Agatha rushed to tell Emily—but the flat was empty. Only a misshapen pillow on the bed.
Gone. A crippled husband was useless to her. *How to break it to Leo?*
The doctor suggested shock might undo shock.
“Discharge tomorrow,” Agatha told Leo.
“And then? Wheelchair?”
“You’re fine. It’s in your head.”
“Where’s Emily?”
“She left.”
His rage was volcanic. But Agatha held firm.
“Listen. Once, I saw Emily steeping tea—with a vial. She hid it when I walked in. Said they were headache drops. *Drops during pregnancy?*”
She’d been eating hospital food—no tea at home. Had *that* been the cause?
“I found something in your room. You weren’t sleeping together.”
“Emily said it was risky—the baby.”
“*This* is her baby.” Agatha placed the pillow on his lap.
Leo recoiled.
“She wanted me gone. If I’d wandered out, I might’ve been hit by a car. You were next. Drugged coffee, a drowsy drive…”
A realization struck. “Did you have tea before the accident?”
“Yes. I felt awful at the wheel…”
If he’d known sooner, tests might’ve proven it. Too late now.
“For the flat, I think. Did you *ever* know her?”
Leo refused the police. He raged for weeks, but Agatha endured.
She arranged physiotherapy. A nurse, Victoria, visited. Leo brightened. In months, he was walking.
He filed for divorce—Emily didn’t contest.
A year later, he married VictoriaAnd as Agatha rocked her newborn granddaughter by the bay window, sunlight flickering through the lace curtains just as it had decades ago, she finally understood that some poisons wear off, but love—real love—only grows stronger with time.
