The Gullible Husband and the Vial of Poison
“We’re here, Mum,” Leo said, opening the car door for his mother.
Margaret stepped out and glanced up at the windows of her flat. She sighed.
“What is it, Mum? Feeling unwell again?”
“No, son.” She looked into his eyes—they were filled with genuine concern. “I’ve spent my whole life in this flat. First with my parents, then with my husband. I brought you home from the hospital here. You were such a sweet baby.” She paused. “Remember when we bought those curtains after the renovation? And now…” Her gaze returned to the windows.
How many hours had she spent staring out of the kitchen window, watching for her Albert? The moment she spotted him crossing the courtyard, she’d check if dinner was still warm. She always left the gas on under the kettle—Albert loved his tea scalding hot, always with lump sugar. None of that sweetened nonsense. A habit from his country roots.
“Come on, Mum,” Leo said, gently touching her arm. “Claire’s probably waiting.”
“Claire…” Margaret murmured under her breath. “She never once visited me. She was waiting for me to die, wasn’t she?”
“Enough, Mum,” Leo cut her off sharply.
They climbed to the second floor of the old townhouse. Leo opened the heavy oak door, its frame still marked where the brass plaque had once hung—her father’s name: “Professor James Harold Whitmore.”
Her daughter-in-law peered out from the living room, sniffed, and disappeared.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mum. I’ll make you tea—with lemon, just how you like it,” Leo said.
Margaret walked into the small room that had once been Leo’s, and before that, hers as a girl. She sank onto the worn-out sofa, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
*What happens now?* she wondered.
***
Margaret had married late. Her father, the professor, had seen her as his successor, pushing her into academia, his projects. Many men had courted her. “Don’t rush, darling. They want your father’s name, not you,” her mother warned.
But at thirty, she fell for an awkward young research assistant. Her father adored him, predicted greatness. That was likely why he approved the marriage. A year later, her father retired, leaving the department to his son-in-law. He and Margaret’s mother moved to the countryside, leaving the flat to the newlyweds.
Life with Albert was good—except she couldn’t conceive. Just as despair set in, it happened. Their joy was overwhelming. When Leo was born, academia faded. Albert wanted her home, raising their son.
He worked tirelessly at the university, publishing papers, books. Enemies circled. By the time Leo—named for his grandfather—was in secondary school, Albert was dead. A heart attack. The stress of rivals calling him an upstart, a fraud coasting on his wife’s name. He couldn’t bear it.
Margaret was left alone with Leo. She never returned to teaching—what use was she now? The family’s countryside home was sold. Money wasn’t an issue. Leo graduated, found work.
When he brought Claire home, Margaret knew it was serious. No point arguing. Leo was besotted. A mother’s instinct warned her—something wasn’t right. Where was Claire from? Who were her parents? Claire gave vague answers. Leo begged her to stop interrogating his fiancée.
The wedding was another red flag. None of Claire’s family came.
“Her mother and stepfather are estranged, and her father’s ill,” Leo defended her.
Margaret relented. If Leo was happy, that was enough. She’d learn to love Claire, endure anything for her son.
She cooked for the growing household, but Claire wrinkled her nose, refusing pies—”watching my figure.” She barely ate.
“Who am I cooking for, then?” Margaret grumbled.
“Mum, leave her be. Let her eat what she wants,” Leo snapped, though he often dined out himself.
Claire supposedly had a job. She left in the morning but returned by lunch, laden with boutique bags, hair freshly styled.
Margaret and Leo used to talk for hours. He shared plans, sought advice. Now, he stayed holed up with Claire.
“Be grateful they haven’t asked to sell the flat,” a friend consoled her.
Margaret clutched her chest. Losing the high-ceilinged townhouse, home to generations, was unthinkable. But who knew? If Claire whispered in Leo’s ear, he might side with her over his mother.
Then came the news—Claire was pregnant. Margaret relaxed. A baby meant they’d need her. The flat was safe—for now. She swapped rooms with the couple—the child would need space.
But something was wrong. Margaret slept constantly, even by day. She woke groggy, mind sluggish. She’d misplace things—her address book “missing” for days, then found in plain sight. Glasses turned up in the fridge. Had she put them there? She didn’t dare tell Leo.
The room swap ceded control to Claire. Margaret lingered in her small space, sleeping, ashamed to leave. The room was far from the loo—sometimes she didn’t make it in time. Embarrassing for a woman her age.
One night, she woke to a figure by her bed—Albert? Claire’s laughter shattered the illusion.
When Leo returned, Claire spun a tale—his mother was incontinent, hallucinating. Margaret tried to explain, but her tongue felt thick. Leo called an ambulance.
Tests showed nothing. By morning, she was lucid. A week later, discharged. Doctors found no cause for her dizziness, nausea, weakness.
***
“Mum, I brought tea.” Margaret opened her eyes. Leo held a cup and biscuits.
“Thank you, love.” She smiled weakly.
After drinking, fatigue dragged her under. *Just tired from hospital*, she thought.
She woke to darkness. The flat was silent. How long had she slept? Head heavy, stomach burning. She’d felt better in hospital—why was she sick again? *Is it sickness at all?*
She warmed milk, ate bread with salt—a childhood comfort. The fire in her gut eased. Back to bed, asleep until morning.
In the kitchen, Claire brewed tea. Invited Margaret to breakfast.
“Don’t you work today?” Margaret asked.
“Doctor’s appointment,” Claire said.
Rising, Margaret noticed the rounded belly beneath Claire’s robe.
“Five months?”
Claire frowned.
Burning, coughing—Margaret couldn’t stand. Claire had already left. She crawled to bed, slept till evening.
Leo wasn’t home. Claire claimed he was at “negotiations.”
The landline rang—unheard of. A stranger’s voice: Leo had been in an accident.
Claire clutched her stomach, collapsed. Torn, Margaret stayed with her. In the morning, they took a taxi to the hospital.
Leo was conscious but couldn’t feel his legs. Doctors were baffled.
Claire took one look, fled. Margaret followed.
“You did this,” Claire hissed, hatred in her dry eyes.
Margaret spent days at Leo’s side. At home only to sleep. Ate at the hospital café. Strangely, her mind cleared. No dizziness, no fog.
Claire visited once, spoke to the doctor, left. No physical cause for Leo’s paralysis. Stress, perhaps.
Back home, the wardrobes were empty. Only a misshapen cushion on the bed.
Claire was gone. No use for a crippled husband. How to tell Leo?
The doctor suggested shock might reverse his condition.
“You’re being discharged tomorrow,” Margaret told him.
“In a wheelchair?”
“You’re fine. It’s in your head.”
“Where’s Claire?”
“She left.”
Leo raged. Margaret stayed calm.
“Listen. Once, I saw Claire with a vial. She hid it when I walked in. Said it was headache drops. Drops during pregnancy? I’ve only eaten at the hospital lately—felt better. Maybe I knew, deep down.”
She placed the cushion on his lap.
“Claire’s ‘pregnancy.’ She wanted me gone. You next. Poisoned you before you drove.”
Leo recoiled. “You’re accusing her of murder?”
“She needed the flat. We must go to the police.”
“No.”
Leo was bitter at first. Margaret arranged physio. A nurse, Victoria, visited. Slowly, he recovered. Within months, he walked unaided.
They divorced Claire in absentia. A year later, Leo married Victoria.
At the shopping centre, heavily pregnant Victoria waited in the car. Margaret felt watched—Claire stood nearby, smirking.
“Leo!” Margaret called. When she looked again, Claire was gone.
*Please, let her stay gone.* But how many trusting men would fall for that pretty face?
