The doctor turned one of the papers toward me.
“We found a very small amount of medication in the sample.”
I stopped breathing.
“This is not poison,” he continued. “It appears to be an older type of medication that was once used for certain seizure-related or heart-rhythm conditions. The amount is very small.”
I stared at him.
“So George has been… giving me medicine?”
Dr. Harris nodded.
“That appears to be the case. But that does not mean giving someone medication without properly discussing it with them is acceptable. You need to speak with him and confirm the history with your doctor.”
I drove home with shaking hands.
George was sitting in the kitchen.
There was an old wooden box on the table in front of him.
The moment he saw my face, he knew.
“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?”
