The doctor pushed the sheet of paper toward me and, without mincing words, said:
“Mrs. Laura… this isn’t chamomile.”
My eyes scanned the printed lines as if they were in another language, until one word hit me like a ton of bricks: benzodiazepine.
“What does that mean?” I asked, even though I already knew. My mouth asked out of habit; my body was already trembling instinctively.
The doctor clasped his hands, serious, careful.
“There’s a sedative in the sample. It’s not a huge amount, but enough to induce deep drowsiness if taken night after night. And there are traces of a second compound that…” He swallowed hard. “…shouldn’t be in a homemade drink. Something that can affect blood clotting.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Were you… drugging me?”
The doctor didn’t use the word “drugging,” as if it weighed heavily on him.
“Someone was administering medication to you without your consent.” And judging by the pattern… —he looked at me intently— it doesn’t seem like an accident.
I left the clinic clutching the folder to my chest, the Zapopan sun hitting my face like a slap. I drove back without music, without the radio, without anything, because any sound could shatter me inside.
At a traffic light, I saw my hands on the steering wheel. They looked the same, but I wasn’t the same anymore.
For six years.
Six years drinking that lukewarm glass of honey while he called me “my little wife” in a velvety voice.
And the worst part wasn’t imagining him adding drops to the glass.
The worst part was thinking about all the nights I woke up dizzy, confused, with a dry mouth… and Diego, so sweet, saying to me:
“Oh, my love, it’s age. Your body doesn’t respond the same way anymore. I’ll take care of you.”
The house in Providencia welcomed me with its impeccable silence. Diego was in the living room, stretching on a mat, as always, as if the world were orderly and clean.
"How did it go, my little wife?" he asked with that serene smile that used to disarm me.
I forced myself to meet his gaze.
"Good. Just… a checkup."
He stood up and kissed my forehead.
"I told you. Taking care of you is the most important thing."
I felt nauseous, but I smiled. I smiled like someone putting on a helmet before going into battle.
That night, when he brought me the glass, I already had a plan.
"Thank you, my love," I whispered, taking the glass with firm hands.
He watched me, that split second I had learned to fear. I swallowed and raised the glass to my lips… but I didn't drink.
"Is it very hot?" he asked softly.
"A little." “I’ll let it cool,” I replied.
Diego nodded, pleased. And went to brush his teeth as if nothing had happened.
As soon as I heard the water running in the sink, I got up, walked to the bathroom down the hall, and emptied the contents into the jar I had hidden. Then I poured some plain water with honey and chamomile—the kind I had prepared myself that afternoon—and left it in the same glass.
When Diego returned, I was already in bed.
