The Trusting Husband and the Vial of Poison
“We’re here, Mum,” Leo said, opening the car door for his mother.
Emmeline stepped out and lifted her eyes to the windows of her flat. She sighed.
“What’s wrong, Mum? Feeling unwell again?”
“No, love,” she murmured, meeting her son’s anxious gaze. “I’ve spent my whole life in this flat. First with my parents, then with your father. This is where I brought you home from the hospital—such a sweet little thing you were.” She paused, lost in thought. “Remember when we bought those curtains after the renovation? And now…” Her eyes wandered back to the windows.
How many hours had she spent at the kitchen window, watching for Nicholas to come home through the courtyard? The moment she spotted him, she’d check if dinner was still warm. Always kept the gas on under the kettle—Nicholas loved his tea scalding hot, with lump sugar. Never took it with sweets—too much of his country upbringing in him.
“Come on, Mum,” Leo said, gently touching her arm. “Grace must be waiting.”
“Grace…” Emmeline exhaled the name like a whisper. “She never once visited me. Was she waiting for me to die?”
“Enough,” Leo snapped, cutting her off.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor of the old townhouse. Leo pushed open the heavy door, its wood scarred by screws where a brass plate once bore her father’s name: *Dr. Leonard Whitmore, Professor*.
Grace peered out from the bedroom, snorted, and vanished.
“Go on in, Mum. I’ll make you tea—just how you like it, with lemon,” Leo said.
Emmeline stepped into the small room that had once been her son’s, and before that, her own as a girl. She sank into the worn sofa, let her head fall back, and closed her eyes.
*What happens now?*
***
Emmeline had married late. Her father, the professor, had seen his daughter as his successor, wanted her to carry on his work in academia. Suitors weren’t lacking. “Don’t rush, darling. Those boys want your father’s name, not you,” her mother warned.
But at thirty, she fell for an awkward young researcher. Her father adored him, predicted great things. Perhaps that was why he’d given his blessing. Within a year, her father retired, leaving his position to his son-in-law. He and her mother moved to the countryside, surrendering the flat to the newlyweds.
Life with Nicholas was good—except Emmeline couldn’t conceive. She’d nearly given up when it finally happened. They were overjoyed. But with Leo’s birth, her academic dreams faded. Nicholas wanted her home, raising their son.
He worked tirelessly at the university, publishing papers, writing books. Envy followed him. By the time Leo—named for his grandfather—was in secondary school, Nicholas was dead. A heart attack. The whispers had worn him down: *Upstart. Fraud. Riding his wife’s coattails.* He couldn’t bear it.
Emmeline was left alone with Leo. She never returned to the university—what kind of scholar was she now? Sold her parents’ house after they passed. Money wasn’t an issue. Later, Leo graduated, found work.
When he brought Grace home, Emmeline knew it was serious. No use objecting. Her son was besotted. But her instincts rang alarms. *Where was she from? Who were her parents?* Grace’s answers were muddled. Leo begged his mother to stop interrogating her.
Then the wedding—no family from Grace’s side attended.
“She’s estranged from her mum and stepdad. Her real father’s ill,” Leo defended.
Emmeline relented. Her boy was happy—that was all that mattered. She’d learn to love Grace.
She cooked for the growing household, but Grace wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat pastries. Watching my figure.” Barely touched a thing.
“Who am I cooking for, then?” Emmeline huffed.
“Mum, leave her be. Let her eat what she wants,” Leo said—though he often dined out himself.
Grace claimed to work somewhere—left in the morning, back by lunch, laden with designer bags, hair freshly styled.
Once, she and Leo would talk for hours, sharing dreams. Now he stayed shut away with Grace.
“Be glad they haven’t asked to sell the flat,” a friend consoled.
Emmeline clutched her chest. That flat—high ceilings, grand windows, generations of memories—she couldn’t lose it. But if Grace whispered poison in Leo’s ear…
Then came the news: Grace was pregnant. Relief washed over Emmeline. A child would tie them all closer. No talk of selling now. She even swapped rooms with them—the baby would need space.
But something was wrong. Emmeline slept constantly, even by day. Woke heavy-headed, sluggish. Her mind fogged—where were her glasses? The phone book? Once, she found them in the fridge. Had *she* put them there?
Surrendering the main room meant surrendering authority. She barely left the small back room, ashamed when she stumbled to the loo. *Why? I’m not that old.*
One night, she woke to a figure looming over her. For a second—Nicholas? Grace’s mocking laugh shattered the illusion.
By morning, Grace spun tales to Leo: *Your mother’s losing it. Wet herself. Called me Nicholas.*
Emmeline tried to explain, but her tongue felt thick. Leo called an ambulance.
The hospital found nothing. A week later, discharged. But home, the fog returned.
***
“Mum? Tea’s ready.” Leo’s voice pulled her awake.
“Thank you, love.” She drank, then drifted off again. *Just tired.*
At dusk, she stirred. The flat was silent. How long had she slept? Her head weighed a ton. Her stomach burned. *Is it really illness?*
In the kitchen, she warmed milk, ate bread with salt—like childhood. The pain eased.
Morning. Grace brewed tea, invited her to breakfast.
“No work today?” Emmeline asked.
“Doctor’s appointment.” Grace stood—her robe clung to a rounded belly.
“Five months?”
Grace froze.
Emmeline choked on her tea. Dizziness swallowed her.
Later, the phone rang—a voice from the hospital. Leo had crashed.
Grace clutched her stomach, collapsed. Emmeline hesitated—who to help first?
At the hospital, Leo was conscious but couldn’t walk. No major injuries. Doctors were baffled.
Grace took one look at him, fled. In the hall, Emmeline touched her shoulder—Grace spun, eyes blazing.
“This is *your* fault,” she spat, then ran.
Days passed. Emmeline stayed at Leo’s side, ate hospital food. Oddly, her mind cleared.
Grace visited once. Spoke to doctors. Vanished.
Then, home—the wardrobes empty. Only a strange, lumpy pillow on the bed.
Grace was gone.
Leo raged when Emmeline told him. But soon, physiotherapy brought hope. A nurse—Beatrice—helped him walk again.
Months later, they married. Beatrice, now pregnant, waited in the car while Leo loaded shopping.
A prickle on her neck—Emmeline turned. There, in the car park: Grace. A smirk, then gone.
*Let her stay gone.* But how many trusting men would fall for that pretty lie?
