My husband cooked dinner, and right after my son and I ate, we collapsed. Pretending to be unconscious, I heard him on the phone saying, “It’s done… they’ll both be gone soon.”
After he left the room, I whispered to my son, “Don’t move yet…” What happened next was beyond anything I could have imagined. Fear gripped me as the fog of poison thickened.
For once, the house felt almost normal. Ethan moved around the kitchen like a man trying to prove something—humming, wiping counters, setting plates properly. He even poured Caleb apple juice.
“Look at Dad,” Caleb grinned. “Chef Ethan.” I smiled back, stomach tight. Lately, Ethan had been careful. Not kind. Careful. Like someone watching his steps, measuring every action.
We ate chicken and rice, meant to comfort. Ethan barely touched his plate, checking his face-down phone constantly, as if permission might vibrate onto the screen at any moment.
Halfway through, my tongue thickened. My limbs dragged through water. Caleb blinked hard. “Mom,” he mumbled, “I’m… sleepy.” Fear slashed through me like a blade, slicing clarity from the fog.
Ethan reached out, patting Caleb’s shoulder. “It’s okay, buddy. Just rest.” My knees buckled. I grabbed the table edge, but it slid away. Darkness tried to close. I let my body go limp.
Cheek pressed into rug fibers smelling like detergent, I kept my mind awake. Caleb slumped beside me, a soft whimper, then stillness. I wanted to move, but I held perfectly still, listening.
Ethan’s chair scraped. His shadow fell across my face. His shoe nudged my shoulder. “Good,” he whispered. Then he picked up his phone, spoke in low, urgent relief, and left.
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