“You took it somewhere, didn’t you?”
I placed the small container on the table.
“Forty years, George. What have you been giving me?”
He closed his eyes.
Then he opened the wooden box.
Inside were old, yellowed medical papers.
My name was written across the top.
Margaret Miller.
I sat down.
George’s eyes filled with tears.
After our first child was born, you started having serious episodes,” he said. “The doctor said you could lose consciousness again if you didn’t take your medication.”I stared at him.
“But you hated taking it. You said it made you feel terrible. You kept refusing.”
“And you decided to hide it in my drink?”
fear of losing his wife.
What he had done was not the right way to handle that fear.
But that night, for the first time in decades, we sat together at the kitchen table knowing exactly what was in both of our glasses.
