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…

My husband cooked dinner, and for once, the house felt almost normal.

Ethan moved around the kitchen like a man trying to prove something—humming, wiping the counters twice, setting the table with real plates instead of the ones we used on tired nights. He even poured my son Caleb a little glass of apple juice, smiling too wide.

wide.

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“Look at Dad,” Caleb said, grinning. “Chef Ethan.”

I smiled back, but my stomach stayed tight. Lately Ethan had been… careful. Not kinder. Careful. Like someone watching their own steps.

We ate chicken and rice, the kind of meal that should have been comforting. Ethan barely touched his plate. He kept checking his phone face-down beside his fork, like it might vibrate with permission.

Halfway through, my tongue felt heavy. Thick. My limbs turned slow like my body was dragging through water.

Caleb blinked hard. “Mom,” he mumbled, “I’m… sleepy.”

Ethan’s hand reached out and patted Caleb’s shoulder, gentle as a priest. “It’s okay, buddy. Just rest.”

Fear sliced through the fog.

I stood up too fast, the room tilting. My knees buckled. I grabbed the table edge, but it slid away like my hands weren’t mine. The floor rose to meet me.

Darkness tried to close.

And right before it did, I made a choice that saved my life: I let my body go limp, but I kept my mind awake.

I landed on the rug near the couch, cheek pressed into fibers that smelled like detergent. Caleb’s small body slumped beside me, a soft whimper, then stillness. I wanted to grab him, to shake him, to scream—

But I didn’t move.

I listened.

Ethan’s chair scraped back. He walked over slowly, the way you walk around something you don’t want to disturb. I felt his shadow fall over my face. His shoe nudged my shoulder—testing.

“Good,” he whispered.

Then he picked up his phone.

I heard his footsteps shift toward the hallway, and then his voice—low, urgent, relieved.

“It’s done,” Ethan said. “They ate it. They’ll both be gone soon.”

My stomach turned to ice.

A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker, thin with excitement. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I followed the dose. It’ll look like accidental poisoning. I’ll call 911 after… after it’s too late.”

“Finally,” the woman breathed. “Then we can stop hiding.”

Ethan exhaled like he’d been holding years inside his lungs. “I’ll be free.”

Footsteps. A door opening—our bedroom closet. A drawer sliding.

Then something metallic clinked.

Ethan returned to the living room carrying something that brushed the floor—maybe a duffel bag. He paused again over us, and I felt his gaze like a hand around my throat.

“Goodbye,” he murmured.

The front door opened. Cold air rushed in. Then it shut.

Silence.

My heart hammered so hard I thought it would give me away.

I forced my lips to move, barely more than breath, and whispered to Caleb, “Don’t move yet…”

And that’s when I felt it—Caleb’s fingers twitching against mine.