The Last Dinner
That evening, Eleanor came home tired and irritated.
“Dinner, Arthur.”
Her tone was dismissive.
“Make it quick.”
“Of course,” I said.
For the first time in months, my voice did not shake.
I prepared one of Evelyn’s favorite meals.
A rich beef stew Eleanor had eaten many times before.
But that evening, I tampered with her portion using the medication she had been controlling.
Then I set the table.
Fine silver.
Wine.
Two places.
Eleanor entered the dining room and stopped.
“You’re eating with me?”
“Special occasion.”
She sat.
Then she placed my usual pill beside my plate.
“Take it.”
I looked down at it.
Then pushed it away.
Eleanor froze.
“What are you doing?”
“I think I’ll take my chances.”
Her expression hardened.
“You have no idea what will happen if you stop.”
“I know more than you think.”
She stared at me.
Then began eating.
I didn’t touch my own food.
After several minutes, something in her expression changed.
Her hand stopped.
The fork slipped from her fingers.
She looked at me.
“What did you do?”
“I found Evelyn’s journal.”
The color drained from her face.
“The real one.”
Now she understood.
“You lied to me about what the pills were.”
Her breathing changed.
I remained seated.
“You and Evelyn convinced me they were saving my life.”
Eleanor tried to stand.
She couldn’t remain steady.
“You’re going to destroy yourself too,” she said.
“I know.”
For a moment, I no longer saw the powerful woman who had controlled my life for months.
I saw the person I had once planned to marry.
Before the crash.
Before Evelyn.
Before everything rotten inside me had finally caught up.
“I told you,” I said quietly. “Neither of us walks away from this unchanged.”
Eleanor’s condition worsened rapidly.
Then the room went silent.
The grandfather clock continued ticking in the hallway.
I sat there staring at the wreckage of the dinner table.
The house was finally quiet.
The house I had once wanted more than anything.
And suddenly I understood how worthless it was.
