My mom never liked my wife

“What kind is it?” I ask.

“Chamomile,” she smiles. “Your favorite.”

I take it. But I don’t drink.

Instead, I excuse myself and flush it down the upstairs sink. My hands are shaking.

I can’t live like this. With this doubt. This slow, creeping fear that the woman I love might’ve done something monstrous. I start to watch her. Closely. I set up a small camera continue reading …