For months, I felt dizzy after dinner. My wife kept saying, “You’re just stressed.” Last night…

 

For months, I felt dizzy after dinner. My wife kept saying, “You’re just stressed. Last night, I hid the food she made and pretended to collapse.” Seconds later, she grabbed her phone. “He’s down. Was the dose enough? When do I get paid?” The room tilted sideways at 8:47 p.m.

 on a Tuesday, and I knew, really knew, that something was very wrong. I was standing at our kitchen sink, rinsing my dinner plate, when the dizziness hit, not the gentle spinning you get from standing up too fast. This was violent, disorienting, the kind of vertigo that makes your brain scream. that gravity has reversed and you’re about to fall upward into the ceiling.

My fingers went numb. The plate slipped from my hands and shattered in the sink. David, you okay? Sarah’s voice came from behind me, bright and concerned. Always so concerned lately. Yeah, just I gripped the counter. Dizzy again. You’re working too hard, honey? She was beside me now, her hand on my back, rubbing gentle circles. Come sit down. Relax.

This had been happening for 4 months. Every single night after dinner. At first, I’d chocked it up to stress. I was a financial analyst at Morrison and Hayes. 60-hour weeks were normal, especially during earning season. But stress doesn’t make your vision blur until you can’t read your computer screen.

 Stress doesn’t make your legs feel like they’re made of wet concrete. I’d been to three different doctors. Dr. Raymond Cooper, my primary care physician for 8 years, had run blood work, all normal, probably anxiety, he’d said, scribbling a prescription for Xanax that I never filled. Dr. Nina Patel, the neurologist Dr. Cooper referred me to had ordered an MRI clean.

No signs of MS, no tumors, no structural abnormalities. Sometimes these things are psychosmatic. Dr. James Roth, the cardiologist I’d seen on my own dime after Sarah suggested my heart might be the problem, had put me on a treadmill for 30 minutes and declared me healthier than most men your age. I was 34.

 But every night, like clockwork, within 20 minutes of finishing dinner, the symptoms would start. dizziness, headaches, blurred vision, weakness in my legs that made climbing the stairs to our bedroom feel like summiting Everest. And every night, Sarah would watch me with those wide, worried eyes and say, “You’re just stressed.

” “Relax, Sarah,” my wife of 6 years. We’d met at a coffee shop in downtown Portland. She’d been reading Kafka. I’d made a joke about the metamorphosis. She’d laughed. And 3 months later, I’d proposed on the Burnside Bridge at Sunset. She was beautiful, smart, worked as a pharmaceutical sales rep for Beexler Medical. Made decent money.

 We had a nice house in the suburbs, two cars, no kids yet, but we’d been talking about it. We were happy. At least I thought we were. Last Tuesday, exactly one week before the plate shattering incident. I noticed something strange. Sarah was in the bathroom when her phone lit up on the coffee table.

 A text message from someone named Jay. Is it working yet? The message stayed on the screen for maybe 5 seconds before the phone went dark. I stared at it. my brain trying to make sense of those four words. Is it working yet? Is what working? A sales pitch, a surprise party, a gift she’d ordered. I told myself it was nothing. That I was being paranoid.

 That the stress and sickness were making me see conspiracy in ordinary conversations. But something felt off. The way Sarah watched me eat. The way she’d hover near the kitchen when I got my own snacks, steering me toward things she’d prepared. The way she’d ask, “How are you feeling?” with this weird edge in her voice.

 Not quite hope, not quite fear. something in between. Monday night, two days ago, I decided to test something. Sarah had made lasagna, her famous lasagna with ricotta and Italian sausage that she knew I loved. She’d served it with a smile, kissed my forehead, and gone to the living room to watch the bachelor while I ate. Instead of eating it, I scraped most of it into a large Ziploc bag when she wasn’t looking. I hid it in my work bag.

 Then, I pushed the remaining bits around my plate to make it look like I’d eaten, soaked the dish in the sink, and joined her on the couch. 20 minutes passed. No dizziness, no headache, no blurred vision. An hour passed. Nothing. I felt fine. Better than fine. I felt normal for the first time in 4 months.

 My hands started shaking. You okay? Sarah asked, noticing. Yeah, just cold. She pulled a blanket over me and snuggled closer. You’re probably coming down with something. I’ll make you soup tomorrow. I smiled and nodded and tried not to think about what that experiment had just proven. Which brings me back to tonight, Tuesday, the night I decided to find out the truth.

 Sarah had made chicken parmesan. She’d been in the kitchen for an hour singing along to Taylor Swift, seeming genuinely happy. She’d plated the food beautifully, the chicken perfectly breaded, the marinara sauce homemade, the mozzarella melted just right. She’d even made garlic bread. “This looks amazing,” I told her. “Anything for my baby.

” She kissed the top of my head. “Eat up. You need your strength.” I ate about a quarter of it, taking small bites, making appreciative noises. When Sarah got up to refill her wine glass, I scraped the rest into another Ziploc bag that I’d hidden in my jacket pocket earlier. I shoved the bag deep into my pocket, rinsed my plate, and the dizziness hit like a freight train. Except this time, it wasn’t real.

I stumbled from the kitchen into the living room, made a show of grabbing the back of the couch, and let myself collapse to the hardwood floor. I lay there face down, eyes closed, breathing shallow, playing dead or nearly dead for about 10 seconds. Nothing happened. Then Sarah’s footsteps rushed over fast, urgent, but she didn’t scream.

 She didn’t shake me. She didn’t call 911. She grabbed her phone. I heard the click of her unlocking it. The tap of her selecting a contact. The brief buzzing of a call connecting. “He’s down,” Sarah whispered, my heart stopped. “Was the dose enough?” she continued, her voice barely audible.

 “I gave him the full amount tonight. When do I get paid?” I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood. I needed to stay still, needed to not react, needed to hear everything. A man’s voice came through the speaker. Tiny and distant, but clear enough. Give it another week. His life insurance pays out double for accidental death.

 We split it 50/50, just like we agreed. What if someone gets suspicious? Sarah’s voice had an edge of panic now. They won’t. You’re playing the worried wife perfectly. Three different doctors found nothing wrong, right? When he finally goes, they’ll chalk it up to some rare condition they missed. Natural causes.

 You get the payout, you sell the house, we take the money, and disappear. Sarah laughed. She actually laughed. He’s so trusting, she said. It’s almost sad. He never questions anything I cook. Never doubts me. Even when he started getting sick, he just went to more doctors instead of suspecting me. That’s what makes it perfect, the man said.

Keep doing what you’re doing. Another week, maybe two, and this is over. I can’t wait, Sarah said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. I’m so tired of playing house. I know, baby. Soon we’ll be in Costa Rica and this nightmare will be over. They talked for another minute. Logistics, timelines, something about a flight. And then Sarah hung up.

 I stayed motionless on the floor, every muscle in my body screaming to move, to grab her, to demand answers, but I didn’t. I kept my eyes closed, kept my breathing shallow, and waited. Sarah’s footsteps moved away. I heard her in the kitchen washing dishes, humming that same Taylor Swift song like she hadn’t just been discussing my murder.

 After what felt like an hour, but was probably 10 minutes, I came too with a groan. David Sarah rushed over all concern and loving touches. Oh my god, you scared me. What happened? I let her help me sit up. Let her fuss over me. Let her suggest I go lie down. I think I need to see another specialist, I said.

 My voice weak but steady. Her face flickered just for a second with something that looked like panic. Then it was gone, replaced with that warm, worried expression I’d come to know so well. Maybe you’re just tired, she said. Don’t waste money on more doctors. They haven’t found anything wrong. You just need rest. Yeah, I said. You’re probably right.

 I let her help me upstairs. Let her tuck me into bed. Let her kiss my forehead and tell me she loved me. When she left to take a bath, I grabbed my phone and called my brother. Rick answered on the second ring. David, it’s almost 10:00. What’s wrong? Rick Samson, detective with the Portland Police Department homicide division.

 15 years on the force. He’d seen things that would break most people. And he was about to see something that would break him. His sister-in-law trying to murder his brother. Rick, I need you to come over tomorrow, I said quietly. When Sarah’s at work, and don’t tell her you’re coming. What’s going on? I think Sarah is trying to kill me. Silence.

 Then what? I told him everything. The four months of symptoms, the doctors finding nothing, the text message, the experiment with the lasagna, tonight’s phone call. When I finished, Rick was quiet for a long time. You’re sure? He finally asked. I heard her, Rick. She’s poisoning my food. There’s someone else involved. A man.

 They’re planning to split my life insurance payout and leave the country. Jesus Christ. I could hear him moving, probably getting dressed. Don’t eat anything she makes. Don’t drink anything she gives you. I’ll be there tomorrow at noon. She’ll still be at work, right? Yeah. She doesn’t get home until 5:00. Good. Don’t let her know you suspect anything. Act normal.

Act sick. Can you do that? Yeah, David. His voice was rough. We’re going to fix this. I promise. I hung up and stared at the ceiling, listening to Sarah humming in the bathroom, the sound of water running, the clink of her wine glass on the marble counter. This woman I’d loved for 6 years, the woman I’d married, the woman I’d trusted with everything.

 She was slowly killing me for money. Rick showed up the next day at 11:58 a.m. Exactly 2 minutes early. He was wearing jeans and a Portland Trailblazers hoodie. Nothing that would scream cop to any neighbors who might see him. “Where is it?” he asked. The second I opened the door, I handed him the Ziploc bag with last night’s chicken parmesan.

 I also have the lasagna from Monday in the freezer. Good. We’ll test both. He pulled out an evidence bag from his pocket. Official police department with a chain of custody label already filled out. I’m doing this off the books for now. Calling in a favor from a guy I know at the state crime lab. Dr. Marcus Webb, toxicologist.

 He owes me from a case I helped him with 3 years ago. How fast can he test it if he prioritizes it? 2 days, maybe three. Rick bagged the evidence carefully, sealed it, signed the label, then he looked at me. Really? Looked at me. You look like he said. Four months of being poisoned will do that.

 What’s she using? Any idea? No, but she works for a pharmaceutical company. She has access to all kinds of stuff. Rick nodded slowly. The symptoms you described, dizziness, blurred vision, weakness. That could be a lot of things. heavy metals, antireeze, certain medications in high doses. He paused. The scary thing is she’s been doing it slow, building it up, so when you finally die, it looks natural, like organ failure or a heart attack.

 She said the life insurance pays double for accidental death, right? So, she’s probably planning to stage something. A fall down the stairs, a car accident, something that looks like your health issues caused it. He pulled out his phone. I’m going to need you to record everything. every meal she makes, every conversation, especially if she mentions the guy she’s working with.

 I don’t even know who he is. She just called him. We’ll figure it out. Does she keep her phone locked? Yeah, but I know the password. It’s our anniversary. Rick almost smiled at that. Of course it is. Tonight when she’s asleep, I need you to go through her phone, text messages, call logs, everything. Screenshot anything suspicious and send it to me.

Don’t delete anything. We need the originals for evidence. Okay. And David? He gripped my shoulder. You need to keep eating her food. What? Or at least pretend to. If she thinks it’s not working, she might try something more drastic. A bigger dose, a different method. We need time to build a case. I stared at him.

 You want me to let my wife keep poisoning me? No. I want you to pretend she’s poisoning you while actually disposing of the food. Can you do that? How? She watches me eat. Not the whole time. She goes to the bathroom. She makes phone calls. She does dishes. You find moments. You scrape food into napkins, into your pockets, into the garbage disposal.

 You make it look eaten. And you act sicker every day. This is insane. Your wife is murdering you for insurance money,” Rick said flatly. “We’re way past insane.” That night, Sarah made pot roast. She’d been cooking it all day in the slow cooker. The smell filled the house. She served it with mashed potatoes and green beans, all arranged perfectly on the plate.

 “You need to eat,” she said gently. “You’re wasting away.” I’d lost 12 lbs in 4 months. My clothes hung loose. My face looked gaunt. “I know,” I said. “It smells amazing.” I ate slowly, methodically. When Sarah got up to get more water, I scraped half the pot roast into the napkin on my lap. When she went to change the TV channel, I dumped the mashed potatoes back into the serving bowl when she wasn’t looking.

 By the time I was done, my plate looked clean and Sarah was smiling. “Good,” she said. “You need your strength.” 20 minutes later, I stumbled to the couch and collapsed dramatically. Sarah watched me with those wide eyes, not worried, not scared, calculating. “Maybe we should update our insurance,” she said suddenly. “You know, just in case.

” “What do you mean?” Well, with you being so sick, it’s smart to make sure I’m taken care of if something happens. I looked at her, really looked at her, and I wondered how I’d never seen it before. The coldness behind those eyes, the way she tilted her head like a predator sizing up prey. Good idea, I said.

 Let’s do that. She smiled, kissed my forehead. I’ll call the agent tomorrow. That night, while Sarah slept, I went through her phone. It was a gold mine. Text messages with someone named Jordan Kesler. Hundreds of them going back 7 months, right before my symptoms started. We need to be patient. This can’t look suspicious. Jay, I’m trying.

It’s hard to watch him every day knowing what I’m doing. S. You said you could handle it. If you can’t, we need to stop now before this goes too far. Jay, no, I can do it. It’s just harder than I thought. S, remember why we’re doing this. $800,000. That’s the payout. Split down the middle.

 We can start over together. Jay, I know you’re right. I love you. S, I love you, too. Just keep the doses steady. Not too much. We don’t want him dying before the updated policy kicks in. Jay, I screenshot every single message. Sent them all to Rick. Then, I put the phone back. exactly where I’d found it and went to the bathroom to throw up. $800,000.

 That was what I was worth. Dead. Rick called the next morning while I was sleeping on the couch and Sarah was at work. Got the messages. He said, “This is good. This is really good, but we need more. More? We need the lab results confirming poison. We need to identify Jordan Kesler and we need a plan for how to catch them both.

 When will the lab results come back?” Web said probably Friday. He’s rushing it. That’s 3 days. I know. Can you hold on three more days? I thought about Sarah’s smile, about the way she watched me eat, about the messages talking about doses and timing and $800,000. Yeah, I said. I can hold on. Friday afternoon at 3:47 p.m.

, Rick called. We got the results. I was alone in the house. Sarah was at a work conference in Seattle, probably meeting Jordan Kesler to plan their next move. And ethylene glycol, antifreeze, small doses mixed into your food over an extended period. Not enough to kill you quickly, but enough to cause cumulative organ damage.

 Eventually, your kidneys would have failed. The doctors would have thought it was some rare disease. My hands were shaking. That’s attempted murder. That’s premeditated attempted murder. And with the text messages showing planning and motive, we have a solid case. He paused. I also found Jordan Kesler. He’s a pharmaceutical sales rep.

 Works for the same company as Sarah. They’ve been having an affair for 9 months. 9 months started about 2 months before your symptoms began. My guess is they were planning this the whole time. I sat down on the couch where I’d collapsed so many times where Sarah had watched me suffer and pretended to care. “What now?” I asked. Now we finish this.

 Does Sarah have any family events coming up? Her parents are flying in next weekend for her dad’s birthday. She wants to have a family dinner here. My parents, her parents, maybe her sister. Rick was quiet then. Perfect. What are you thinking? You’re going to expose her in front of everyone with evidence. I’ll be there with backup.

 We arrest her at the dinner table. That’s dramatic. Your wife has been slowly poisoning you for four months while planning to stage your accidental death and run away with her boyfriend to Costa Rica. Rick said dramatic is appropriate. The next week was the longest of my life. I kept up the act. Ate Sarah’s meals or pretended to. Got weaker, more confused.

 She loved it. Started talking about when we update the insurance and the trip we’ll take after you’re feeling better. The trip we’d never take because I’d be dead. She invited everyone to dinner Friday night. Just family. She said a nice dinner. you’ve been so sick. It’ll be good to have everyone together.

” She wanted witnesses to see how devoted she was, how caring, perfect. Friday came. My parents arrived at 5:30 p.m. Mom immediately started fussing over how thin I’d gotten. “David, you look terrible. Are you sure the doctors don’t know what’s wrong?” “They’re stumped,” I said, leaning heavily on the couch. But Sarah’s been taking great care of me.

Sarah beamed, hugged my mother. “I just want him to feel better.” Her parents arrived at 5:45 p.m. Donald and Margaret Hayes, both retired, both completely oblivious to their daughter’s plan to commit murder. They brought wine and dessert and compliments about how lovely our home looked.

 Sarah’s always been so good at taking care of people, Margaret said, squeezing her daughter’s shoulder. Sarah smiled. I learned from the best, Mom. Rick showed up at 6 p.m. sharp in his civilian clothes, carrying a bottle of wine like a normal dinner guest. Only I could see the bulge under his jacket where his service weapon was holstered.

“Detective Samson,” Sarah said warmly, hugging him. “So glad you could make it. Wouldn’t miss it,” Rick said, his smile not reaching his eyes. We all sat down to dinner at 6:30 p.m. Sarah had made pot roast again, her specialty. She’d spent hours on it. The table was set beautifully.

 Candles, cloth napkins, the good china. She wanted this to be memorable. It would be, just not the way she’d planned. Before we eat, I said, standing up slowly, gripping the edge of the table for support. I want to say something. Sarah looked up at me, surprised, then pleased. She probably thought I was going to thank her in front of everyone.

 Sarah has been taking such incredible care of me during this illness, I continued, my voice weak, but steady, cooking every meal, making sure I eat, watching over me constantly. Her smile grew wider. My mother was tearing up. “In fact,” I said, pulling out my phone. I wanted everyone to hear just how dedicated she’s been, how much effort she’s put into my care.

 I pressed play on the recording I’d made that first night, the night I’d collapsed and overheard everything. Sarah’s voice filled the room, clear and undeniable. He’s down. Was the dose enough? I gave him the full amount tonight. When do I get paid? The color drained from Sarah’s face so fast I thought she might faint.

Then Jordan Kesler’s voice. Give it another week. His life insurance pays out double for accidental death. We split it 50/50. just like we agreed. My mother gasped. Margaret Hayes stood up so fast her chair fell over backward. Sarah lunged for my phone, but Rick was faster. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into her seat.

 Sarah Hayes, he said, his voice cold and professional, showing his badge. You’re under arrest for attempted murder. “No, Sarah’s voice was shrill, panicked.” “David, please, I can explain. This isn’t what it sounds like. Explain what?” I said, my voice steady now, all weakness gone. Explain that you’ve been poisoning me with antireeze for 4 months.

 I pulled out the lab report that Rick had brought, official state crime lab letter head, Dr. Marcus Webb’s signature at the bottom, and threw it onto the table. Ethylene glycol, I continued. Small doses mixed into every meal you made. Designed to cause cumulative organ damage so that when I finally died, it would look natural. Margaret was crying.

My father looked ready to murder someone. Sarah’s father just stared at his daughter in horror. The lab tested multiple food samples, Rick said, pulling out his handcuffs. Every single one contained antifreeze. We have text messages between you and Jordan Kesler detailing the plan. We have voice recordings of your conversations about splitting the insurance money.

 We have documentation of your affair. This is over, Sarah. You don’t understand, Sarah said, tears streaming down her face now. We needed the money. Jordan and I, we love each other. We want to start a life together, but we can’t afford. We had money, I said quietly. I make six figures. You make good money.

 We own a house. We have savings. You didn’t need anything. You just wanted more. Rick pulled Sarah to her feet and cuffed her hands behind her back. You have the right to remain silent. As he read her Miranda rights, two uniformed officers came through the front door. Rick’s backup who’d been waiting outside. Sarah looked at me one last time.

 Her makeup was running, her hair was disheveled. She looked nothing like the beautiful woman I’d married 6 years ago. I loved you once, she said, her voice broken. No, I said you loved what I was worth dead. There’s a difference. The officers led her out. Rick stayed behind to take statements from everyone. My mother couldn’t stop crying.

 Margaret Hayes kept apologizing over and over as if her daughter’s evil was somehow her fault. But my father just looked at me. “How did you figure it out?” he asked. I thought about that text message, about the experiment with the lasagna, about playing dead on my living room floor and hearing my wife calmly discuss my murder. “Simple,” I said.

 I stopped trusting my wife the moment she started caring if I lived or died. Jordan Kesler was arrested three hours later at his apartment in northwest Portland. He’d been packing for Costa Rica, tickets to San Jose already purchased, scheduled to depart the following Wednesday. Rick found maps of Costa Rica, property listings for beachfront homes, and $47,000 in cash that Sarah had been skimming from our joint accounts for the past 6 months.

 The case never went to trial with the evidence, the recordings, the text messages, the lab reports, the testimony from Dr. Marcus Webb about the ethylene glycol, the airline tickets, the cash. Sarah’s lawyer advised her to take a plea deal. 23 years for attempted murder. Jordan Kesler got 18 years for conspiracy and accessory to attempted murder.

 The DA, Caroline Foster, a 41-year-old former public defender who’d switched sides after her brother was killed by his girlfriend, came to see me a week before sentencing. Your brother did good work on this case, she said. The evidence was airtight. Most attempted murder cases are hard to prove because the victim doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.

You realized you documented. You built a case. I had help. You had family. She corrected. And you were smart enough to ask for it. At the sentencing hearing, Sarah’s lawyer tried to paint her as a victim trapped in an unhappy marriage, manipulated by Jordan Kesler, suffering from mental health issues.

 The judge wasn’t buying it. “You slowly poisoned your husband over 4 months,” Judge Patricia Morrison said, her voice hard. You planned his murder with your lover. You stood to profit $800,000 from his death. This wasn’t a crime of passion. This wasn’t a mental health crisis. This was calculated premeditated attempted murder. 23 years.

 Sarah cried, begged for mercy. Looked at me like I was the monster. I looked back at her with nothing. No anger, no sadness, just the cold satisfaction of knowing she’d underestimated me right up until the end. 6 months after Sarah’s sentencing, I was having coffee with Rick at our usual place, a small cafe in downtown Portland that made decent espresso and kept to themselves.

 “How are you doing?” Rick asked. “Better.” “I’d regained the weight I’d lost. The dizziness was gone. The weakness was gone.” “Dr. Marcus Webb had confirmed that the kidney damage from the antifreeze was minimal and reversible. The therapist says, “I’m doing well. I’d been seeing Dr. Jennifer Ramirez, a trauma specialist who worked with crime victims.

 She’d helped me process what had happened. the betrayal, the gaslighting, the fact that I’d been sleeping next to someone who was actively trying to kill me. You’re remarkably well adjusted, she’d told me in our last session. Most people who go through something like this develop severe trust issues. I have trust issues, I’d said.

 I just keep them contained. Rick smiled. You’re tougher than you look. Had to be. What about the house? I’d sold it 3 months ago. Couldn’t stay there. Couldn’t sleep in the bed where Sarah had lay next to me planning my death. Couldn’t eat in the kitchen where she’d mix poison into my food. Got a condo downtown. Smaller, cleaner. No memories. Good.

 We drank our coffee in silence for a while. Then Rick said, “Sarah’s been trying to write to you. I know. I don’t read them.” Probably smart. What does she say? Rick shrugged. The usual. She’s sorry. She made a mistake. She was confused. She still loves you. Classic narcissist manipulation. She doesn’t love me. She never did. No. Rick agreed. She didn’t.

I thought about that for a minute. About how I’d believed her for so long. About how I’d trusted her completely. about how close I’d come to dying because I couldn’t imagine that the person I loved most in the world wanted me dead. “You know what the worst part is?” I said finally.

 “What? I still have moments where I miss her. Not the real her, the her she pretended to be. The woman who laughed at my jokes and kissed me goodbye every morning and said she wanted to grow old with me. That woman never existed, but I miss her anyway.” Rick nodded. “That’s normal. You’re grieving someone who wasn’t real. That’s harder than grieving someone who died.

” “Yeah, but you survived,” Rick said. “And she’s in prison. That’s what matters. A year after Sarah’s sentencing, I got a message from Dr. Raymond Cooper, my old primary care physician, the one who’d told me my symptoms were probably anxiety. I owe you an apology. I should have taken your symptoms more seriously.

 I should have run more tests. I’m glad you’re okay. I didn’t respond. He’d done his job, run blood work, found nothing obviously wrong, referred me to specialists. He couldn’t have known. Nobody could have known except me. And I’d almost ignored my own instincts because I loved my wife. That was the real lesson. Trust your gut, even when it means suspecting the person you love most.

 Especially then. 2 years after Sarah’s arrest, I was at a grocery store picking up milk when I ran into Margaret Hayes, Sarah’s mother. We hadn’t spoken since the sentencing. She looked older, tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying guilt you can’t put down. David, she said quietly. Margaret, how are you? I’m fine. I’m glad.

 She paused, looking like she wanted to say something else. Then, I don’t expect you to forgive her or me. But I want you to know I never knew. Neither did Donald. We thought she loved you. We thought you were happy. We were, I said. At least I thought we were. She’s not the daughter we raised.

 I don’t know what happened to her. When she met Jordan, something changed. Or maybe it was always there and we just never saw it. Does it matter? No, I suppose it doesn’t. Margaret looked at me with sad eyes. You deserved better. Yeah, I said. I did. She walked away and I stood there in the cereal aisle thinking about all the dinners we’d had together, all the holidays, all the times Margaret had told me I was like a son to her.

 All of it built on a foundation of lies. I finished my shopping, went home to my clean condo with no memories, and made myself dinner. Something simple, something I made myself, something nobody else could poison. And I realized, standing in my kitchen alone, that I was okay. Not healed. Probably never fully healed, but okay.

 Sarah had tried to kill me. She’d failed. She was in prison. I was alive. That was enough. 3 years after the arrest, I met someone new. Emily. She was kind, honest, worked as a veterinarian. had no interest in life insurance policies or pharmaceutical sales. We took things slow, very slow. I told her about Sarah on our fifth date, sitting in a quiet restaurant, watching for her reaction.

That’s terrifying, she said finally. Yeah. How do you trust anyone after that? Carefully, I said very, very carefully. She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. I can work with careful. Rick liked her. She’s normal, he said after meeting her. Boring even. That’s good. I’ll tell her you called her boring. Please don’t.

 But he was right. Emily was wonderfully, beautifully normal. She didn’t watch me eat. She didn’t ask about my life insurance. She just liked spending time with me, talking about her patients, making terrible puns about dogs and cats. It was the most refreshing thing I’d ever experienced. 4 years after Sarah’s arrest, I stopped having nightmares about pot roast.

 5 years after Sarah’s arrest, Emily moved into my condo. 6 years after Sarah’s arrest, I proposed. She said yes immediately. Then you’re sure after everything? I’m sure, I said. Because you’re nothing like her. Because I trust you. Because I’ve learned the difference between someone who loves me and someone who wants me dead.

 She laughed, cried, kissed me. That’s a pretty low bar, she said. It’s a starting point. We got married on a beach in Oregon. Small ceremony, just family and close friends. Rick was my best man. Emily’s sister was her maid of honor. It was simple and perfect and everything Sarah’s betrayal had taught me to value.

 No secrets, no lies, no poison. Just two people who chose each other, honestly. 7 years after Sarah’s arrest, I went to visit her in prison. I don’t know why. Closure, maybe. Curiosity. Some perverse need to see what she’d become. She looked older. Prison had been hard on her. Her red hair had faded. Her face was lined. She’d lost weight.

 “David,” she said when she sat down across from me, separated by glass. “I can’t believe you came.” “Neither can I. I’ve written you so many letters. I know you never responded.” No. She looked at me for a long time. I’m sorry for what I did. I was sick. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Jordan manipulated me.

 I never would have. Stop. I said quietly. She stopped. I didn’t come here for apologies. I continued. I came here because I needed to see you one more time. To remind myself that you’re real. That this actually happened because sometimes it still feels like a nightmare. It was a nightmare for both of us. No, Sarah. It was a choice. You chose to poison me.

You chose to plan my murder. You chose money over my life. Those were all choices. She was crying now. I loved you. No, I said standing up. You loved yourself and that’s why you’re in here and I’m out there living my life. I walked away without looking back. That night I went home to Emily. We made dinner together.

 Nothing fancy, just pasta and salad. We ate at our small kitchen table talking about our days, laughing about something stupid one of her patients had done. And I realized that this this simple, honest, boring life was everything Sarah had tried to take from me. But she’d failed. I was alive. I was happy. I was loved by someone who actually meant it.

 She was in prison for 17 more years. I stopped trusting my wife the moment she started caring if I lived or died. And that decision saved my