“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.”
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I stared at him.
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“But you hated taking it. You said it made you feel terrible. You kept refusing.”
“And you decided to hide it in my drink?”
He lowered his head.
“At first, the doctor had told us that the liquid form could be mixed with a small amount of a drink, and you knew about it then. But years passed. You stopped remembering that period clearly.”
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I could barely speak.
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After 69 years of marriage, I sat in a lawyer’s office and learned that my husband had left me absolutely nothing in his will. I was still trying to understand how the man I had spent nearly seven decades with could do that when his attorney quietly handed me a sealed letter. My husband’s handwriting was on the front. I opened it with trembling hands, and the first line made my heart stop: “This was my plan. Now I have to tell you the truth.”
