The Trusting Husband and the Poisoned Cup
“We’re here, Mum,” Leo said, holding the car door open for his mother.
Agatha stepped out and tilted her head toward the windows of her flat. She sighed.
“What’s wrong? Feeling unwell again?” Leo asked, studying her face.
“No, darling.” She met his gaze, seeing the genuine worry in his eyes. “I’ve spent my whole life here. First with my parents, then with your father. I brought you home from the hospital to this flat—such a sweet babe you were.” Her voice trailed off. “Remember when we bought those curtains after the renovation? And now…” She glanced up again, as if searching for something in the glass.
How many hours had she spent at that kitchen window, watching for her Henry? The moment she spotted him crossing the yard, she’d check if dinner was still warm. She always left the kettle on the stove—Henry loved his tea scalding hot, with sugar cubes, never sweets. A habit from his country roots.
“Come on, Mum,” Leo said softly, touching her arm. “Emily’s probably waiting.”
“Emily.” Agatha exhaled the name like a curse. “She never once visited me. Was she waiting for me to die?”
“Enough of that,” Leo snapped.
They climbed the steps to the second floor of the old townhouse. Leo unlocked the heavy oak door, its surface marked by the ghosts of screws and the brass plaque that once bore her father’s name: *Professor Lionel Whitmore*.
Her daughter-in-law peeked out from the sitting room, sniffed, and vanished again.
“Go on in, Mum. I’ll make tea—with lemon, just how you like it,” Leo said.
Agatha shuffled into the small bedroom, which had once been Leo’s, and before that, hers as a girl. She sank onto the worn sofa, tipped her head back, and closed her eyes.
*What happens now?*
***
Agatha had married late. Her father, the professor, saw her as his academic heir, wanted her to carry on his work. Suitors came and went. “No rush, love. They want your father’s name, not you,” her mother would say.
But at thirty, she fell for an awkward young doctoral student. Her father adored him, saw brilliance in him. So he blessed the match. A year later, her parents retired to the countryside, leaving the flat to the newlyweds.
Life with Henry was good—except for the ache of childlessness. She’d nearly given up when it happened. The joy of Leo’s birth made her forget academia. Henry wanted her home with their son while he worked tirelessly at the university, publishing papers, enduring whispers that he’d only risen by marrying the professor’s daughter. When Leo was in secondary school, Henry collapsed from a heart attack. The stress, the envy—it killed him.
Agatha raised Leo alone. She never returned to teaching—what use was she now? Sold her parents’ cottage. Money was enough. Leo graduated, found work.
Then he brought Emily home.
She knew it was serious. Her son was besotted. But her instincts prickled. Where was this girl from? Who were her people? Emily’s answers were vague. Leo begged her to stop interrogating.
Not a single relative came to the wedding.
“Her mother and stepfather are estranged, and her real father’s ill,” Leo explained.
Agatha relented. If Leo was happy, she’d endure. She’d learn to love Emily.
She cooked for the household, but Emily wrinkled her nose. “I don’t eat pastry. Watching my figure.” She barely touched anything.
“Who am I cooking for, then?” Agatha fumed.
“Leave her be,” Leo said, though he often dined out too.
Emily worked—somewhere. Out in the mornings, back by lunch with shopping bags, a new hairstyle.
Leo used to confide in her. Now he and Emily shut themselves away.
“Be grateful they haven’t asked to sell the flat,” a friend consoled.
Agatha clutched her chest. Losing this home—the high ceilings, the grand windows—was unthinkable. But what if Emily whispered in Leo’s ear? What wouldn’t he do for her?
Then came the news: Emily was expecting. Agatha relaxed. A child would need her. The flat was safe. She swapped rooms with the couple—the baby would need space.
But something was wrong.
Agatha slept constantly, even by day. Woke groggy, mind sludge. She misplaced things—her address book, her glasses. Found them days later in the fridge. *Did I put them there?*
The small room became her cage. Weak legs, dizzy spells. Humiliating lapses. Once, she woke to a figure by the bed—Henry? Then Emily’s laugh.
Leo came home to Emily’s hysterics: *She barely makes it to the loo! Thought I was your father!*
Agatha tried to explain, but her tongue was thick. The hospital found nothing. A week later, discharged.
***
“Mum. Tea.” Leo’s voice roused her.
She sipped it. Then—the fog returned. *Just tired*, she thought, eyelids sinking.
When she woke, the flat was dark. Silent. Her stomach burned. *Is this illness—or something else?*
In the kitchen, she caught Emily pouring tea. A vial in her hand—hidden when she noticed Agatha. “Headache drops,” Emily said.
Agatha stopped drinking tea at home. The fog lifted.
Then Leo crashed his car. No major injuries—but his legs wouldn’t work.
Emily visited once. Vanished the next day, leaving only a strange, lumpy pillow on the bed.
“She never carried a child,” Agatha realized.
Leo raged. Denied it. But as he healed—massages from a kind nurse, Veronica—the truth settled.
A year later, newly wed to Veronica, they shopped for the baby.
Agatha felt eyes on her. Emily stood across the car park. Smiled.
Then she was gone.
*How many trusting men will she ruin?*
