One evening, Ethan told me he planned to stay up late. “I’m making a special herbal dessert for the yoga team,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Go to bed, baby. I’ll be up soon.”
I nodded, changed into my nightgown, and pretended to sleep. But something in me—some old teacher’s instinct—wouldn’t rest.
I slipped quietly down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.
Ethan stood by the counter, humming softly. My glass—the one he always used for my bedtime tea—was on the counter. I watched as he poured in warm water, added honey and chamomile… and then, from a small amber bottle, counted three clear drops into the mix.
One. Two. Three.
Then he stirred, smiling to himself, and carried the glass upstairs.
The Test
I raced back to bed, my heart pounding. When he entered the room, I feigned a sleepy yawn.
“Here you go, little wife,” he said softly.
“I’ll drink it in a minute,” I murmured, setting it aside.
Later, when his breathing deepened in sleep, I poured the contents into a small thermos, sealed it, and hid it in the closet.
The next morning, I took it straight to a private clinic and asked for a discreet analysis.