On our wedding anniversary, as we sat around the table, my husband raised his glass with a solemn smile.
I followed suit, but just before the toast, I noticed something that made my skin crawl—he had slipped something into my drink. My instincts screamed. I didn’t wait to find out what it was. Quietly, while everyone was momentarily distracted, I swapped my glass with his sister’s.
Ten minutes later, glasses clinked and we all sipped. Moments after, she collapsed. Panic erupted. People shouted, rushed to help. My husband’s expression twisted in shock—as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
He stammered, “She wasn’t supposed to drink! I switched the glasses!”
That was the moment it hit me. I was right. That drink was meant for me. My own husband had planned to poison me.
I said nothing. I returned home and sat down, barely able to breathe. He came in later, pretending nothing was wrong.
“How are you feeling?” he asked with a forced smile.
“I’m fine,” I replied, my voice even. “You?”