😱 I was married to a thirty-five-year-old man who referred to me as “my little wife” and brought me water each night. till the night I learned of his dreadful scheme.
My name is Aurélie Beaumont, and I will be sixty years old in a few months.
Lucas Delcourt, whose youth contrasts sharply with my own, has been a part of my life for the past six years. Even though he is 35 years younger than me, he sometimes seems to have lived a thousand lives before coming into contact with me.
My life had devolved into a prolonged period of stillness when we first met in a moderate yoga session in Lyon. In addition to dealing with loneliness and a back that hurt most of the time, I had lost my husband and quit teaching.
The teacher was Lucas. His calm, focused eyes seemed to contain the tranquility I so urgently needed. Everything seemed lighter, as if time had stopped when he smiled.
People cautioned me:
He wants your money, Aurélie. You’re deceiving yourself.
I had inherited a substantial sum, it was true.
Lucas, however, never made any requests of me. Conversely, he prepared meals, cleaned the house, gave me massages in the evenings, and referred to me as “my little wife” or “my darling” in such a sweet voice that it was simple to believe him.
He would bring me a glass of warm water with honey and chamomile every night before I went to bed.
Drink it all, my dear. It’s impossible for me to sleep without you.
And I would drink after being transferred. For six years, I thought I had discovered what so few people ever find: a gentle tenderness, a love devoid of expectations and calculations.
Up until that evening.
Lucas had promised to stay up late to make his yoga friends a herbal dessert.
— My dear, go to bed before me; I’ll be right over.
I switched out the lamp and nodded. I didn’t sleep, though.
I had an instinct, like an animal instinct, to keep myself awake.
I stood up quietly and moved down the corridor.
I observed Lucas from the doorway.
He was filling my customary glass with hot water while humming softly. Then he pulled a tiny amber bottle from a drawer and tipped his palm so that one, two, and three droplets of a transparent liquid fell into the water.
After stirring in the chamomile and honey, he picked up the glass and carried it upstairs.
I pretended to be half asleep as I slipped back into bed.
With the same gentle grin, he gave me the glass:
My tiny wife, have a drink.
With a yawn, I picked up the glass and whispered:
— My dear, I’ll complete it later.
I filled a thermos, carefully sealed it, and concealed it in my closet once he had fallen asleep.
I drove to a private clinic at daybreak and left the liquid for analysis without saying a word.
The doctor called me in two days later.
His tone was measured, his look solemn.
The doctor replied gravely, “Madame Beaumont, the drink you’ve been taking every night contained a powerful sedative.” It might have eventually led to memory loss and perhaps reliance.
He continued, “The person who administered it to you wasn’t attempting to put you to sleep.
The earth gave way beneath me. Six years of love, tenderness, and smiles and I had been sipping a lie the entire time.
I didn’t touch my glass that night. Lucas managed a smile when he saw it was still full.
Why do you not consume alcohol?
I muttered, “I don’t feel like it.”
His eyes shifted to one of suspicion and coldness. I explored the house the following day when he was in class. I discovered the brown bottle, unlabeled, in the drawer of his bedside table. My hands were shaking. I gave my lawyer a call.
I had emptied the safe and moved my savings a week later. I told him everything that night.
He gave a shrug.
— Aurélie, you’re overreacting. All I wanted to do was help you unwind.
— No, I whispered. You intended to put me to sleep.
He never again came to my house after that.
I submitted an annulment application. The lab verified the presence of an illicit sedative, and the bottle was confiscated. Lucas disappeared without a trace, taking my delusions with him.
The loss of trust was more terrible than his treachery. For months, my heart would race when I woke up at the smallest sound. The silence gradually ceased to feel dangerous.
I relocated close to the shore after selling the large house. I teach yoga to women my age now, at sixty-two, to help them relax both physically and mentally.
I smile when someone asks if I still think love exists:
Yes, but genuine love is uncontrollable. It changes.
I gaze in the mirror, drink my tea with lemon and cinnamon, and whisper to myself every night:
— To the woman who awoke at last.
