My name is Margaret and I am 64 years old. When I married Daniel, who was 31, my family was convinced I had lost my mind.
Daniel was a successful businessman. He owned his own company, a luxurious mansion, and enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life without ever having to work.
I wasn’t rich. I had worked as a teacher and lived on a modest pension.
So, whenever someone asked me why a
“Why would such a young
and wealthy man want to marry a woman my age?” she simply smiled.
Because I believed he truly loved me.
At first, our marriage seemed like a fairy tale.
Daniel would bring me flowers, prepare breakfast, and never let me carry anything heavy.
But six months later, I began to notice a strange habit.
Every night, he would prepare my favorite hot drink himself.
—Drink it, darling. You’ll feel better —she told me.
Sometimes he would even sit in front of me and wait until I had completely emptied the cup.
At first, I considered it a sign of love.
Until one night I unexpectedly returned to the kitchen and saw him adding something from a small dark jar to my drink.
Daniel saw me and immediately put the bottle in his pocket.
“What did you just put there?” I asked.
He smiled.
—Nothing, honey. Just
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