The Trusting Husband and the Vial of Poison

“Here we are, Mum.” Leo opened the car door for his mother.

Ethel stepped out and lifted her eyes to the windows of her flat. She sighed.

“What is it, Mum? Feeling poorly again?”

“No, no, son.” She searched his eyes—they brimmed with genuine worry. “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 thing.” She hesitated. “Remember when we bought those curtains after the renovation? And now…” Her gaze drifted back to the windows.

How many hours had she spent at the kitchen window, watching for her Albert? The moment she spotted him crossing the courtyard, she’d check if dinner was still warm. Always left the gas on under the kettle—Albert loved his tea scalding hot, always with lump sugar. No sweets, no nonsense. Country roots, she supposed.

“Come on, Mum,” her son interrupted, touching her arm. “Ivy’s probably waiting.”

“Ivy…” Ethel exhaled the name. “Never once visited me. Was she waiting for me to die?”

“Enough of that, Mum,” he snapped.

They climbed to the second floor of the old townhouse. Leo pushed open the heavy door, still marked from the screws of the plaque that once bore her father’s name: *”Prof. Leonard Frederic Holmes.”*

Her daughter-in-law poked her head out, sniffed, and vanished.

“Make yourself at home, Mum. I’ll put the kettle on—tea with lemon, just how you like it.”

Ethel drifted into the small room—once her son’s, before that, her own as a girl. She sank onto the worn sofa, tilted her head back, and shut her eyes.

*What now?*

***

Ethel had married late. Her father, the professor, saw her as his successor, wanted her to carry on his work. Plenty of suitors came calling. “Take your time, love. It’s your father’s name they want, not you,” her mother warned.

But at thirty, she fell for an awkward young graduate student. Her father adored him, prophesied greatness. Perhaps that’s why he consented to the match. A year later, her father retired, leaving his post to his son-in-law. He and her mother moved to the countryside, their flat now the young couple’s.

Life with Albert was good—only a child never came. Ethel had given up when it happened. What joy they’d shared! Once Leo was born, academia faded. Albert wanted her home, raising their boy.

He worked tirelessly at the university, publishing papers, books. Enemies followed. By the time Leo—named for his grandfather—reached Year Seven, Albert was gone. A heart attack. The whispers had worn him down—*upstart, fraud, riding his father-in-law’s coattails*. He couldn’t bear it.

Ethel and Leo carried on. She never returned to teaching—what sort of scholar was she now? Sold her parents’ house when they passed. Money wasn’t an issue. Then Leo finished uni, found work.

When he brought Ivy home, Ethel knew it was serious. No use arguing. Her son was besotted. But her mother’s instinct prickled. *Where’s she from? Who are her people?* Ivy’s answers were slippery. “Leave her be,” Leo pleaded.

No relatives came to the wedding—not even Ivy’s parents.

“She’s estranged from her mum and stepdad. Her real father’s ill,” Leo explained.

Ethel relented. If her boy was happy, she’d endure. Love the girl, for his sake.

She cooked for the household, but Ivy wrinkled her nose. “Watching my figure,” she’d say, barely touching a thing.

“Who’s all this for, then?” Ethel fumed.

“Leave her be, Mum. Let her eat what she likes.” Leo defended her—though he often dined out himself.

Ivy claimed to work. Out by morning, back by lunch, toting glossy bags from boutiques, hair freshly styled.

Once, she and Leo would talk for hours, sharing dreams, seeking advice. Now he stayed cloistered with Ivy.

“Be thankful she hasn’t asked to sell the flat,” a friend consoled.

Ethel clutched her chest. Losing this place—high ceilings, sweeping stairs, generations of family—was unthinkable. But what if Ivy whispered in Leo’s ear? What wouldn’t he do for her?

Then came the news—Ivy was expecting. Ethel relaxed. A child meant they’d need her. No talk of selling now. She swapped rooms with the young couple—more space for the baby.

Yet something wasn’t right. Ethel began sleeping at odd hours, waking sluggish, her mind fogged. She’d search for the phone book, only to find it days later in plain sight. Glasses turned up in the fridge. *Did I put them there?* She dared not mention it to Leo.

With the room swap, her authority waned. Shame kept her tethered to that cramped space, dozing endlessly. The loo seemed miles away—her legs leaden, head spinning. Embarrassing lapses happened. At her age?

One night, she awoke to a figure by the bed. *Albert?* Then Ivy’s laugh cut through the dark.

When Leo returned, Ivy pounced. “Your mother couldn’t make it to the loo! Thought she saw your dad!”

Ethel tried to explain, but her tongue betrayed her. Leo called an ambulance.

The hospital found nothing wrong. By morning, she was lucid. A week of tests revealed no cause for the dizziness, nausea, weakness. Released, she pondered what had truly happened.

***

“Mum? Brought you tea.”

She opened her eyes. Leo stood with a cup and biscuits.

“Ta, love.”

She drank. Soon, the heaviness returned, dragging her under. “Just tired,” she thought, drifting off.

When she woke, night had fallen. The flat was silent. What time was it? Her head felt stuffed with wool. A fire burned in her belly. She’d been desperate to leave the hospital—yet home made her sick again. *Is this illness—or something else?*

In the kitchen, she warmed milk, ate bread with salt, like a child. The pain eased.

Back to bed. Back to sleep.

Morning: Ivy brewing tea.

“Day off, Ivy?”

“Doctor’s appointment.”

Rising, Ethel noticed the curve beneath Ivy’s dressing gown.

“Five months?”

“What?”

Ethel choked, coughed. Then—she couldn’t stand. Ivy was already gone.

Leo returned late. “Negotiations,” Ivy said.

*Negotiations? At this hour?* Ethel’s thoughts dissolved.

The landline rang—a sound forgotten.