I am nearly sixty, married to a man thirty years younger than me. For six years, he has called me his “little wife” and brought me water every night—until the night I followed him to the kitchen and discovered a plan I was never meant to see.

I nodded and turned off the bedside lamp while pretending to drift into sleep, yet a strange quiet feeling deep inside me refused to settle.

After several minutes I quietly slipped out of bed and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen while keeping my footsteps soft against the floor.

From the doorway I watched Connor standing at the counter humming a soft melody while preparing what looked like the familiar bedtime drink he always made for me.

He poured warm water into my usual glass and opened a narrow drawer beside the stove before removing a small amber bottle.

My breath caught as I saw him tilt the bottle and allow three careful drops of a clear liquid to fall into the water.

He then added honey and chamomile and stirred the mixture slowly until it looked exactly like the drink he had prepared for me every night for years.

A chill moved through my entire body.

When he finished he carried the glass upstairs toward our bedroom while I rushed back to bed and pretended to be half asleep.

He smiled warmly as he placed the glass in my hand.

“Here you go, baby,” he said softly.

I forced a yawn and answered in a tired voice, “I might finish it later tonight.”