I stirred the laxative into my husband’s coffee at 6:52 on a Tuesday morning, and my hand didn’t shake once.
It was an over-the-counter powder I’d bought the night before at the Walgreens on Montgomery Road, along with a bottle of shampoo so the cashier wouldn’t look at me funny. I tore the packet open over the sink, poured it into the black mug that said BEST HUSBAND in gold letters, and stirred it in with a teaspoon until it disappeared.
Then I added his cream and two sugars, the way he likes it, and set it on the counter.
Upstairs, I could hear the shower running. Brad was getting ready for what he’d told me was a “client meeting” downtown. He’d been having a lot of client meetings lately. Most of them were at the Westin on Fountain Square, according to the credit card statement I’d found folded in his blazer pocket on Saturday.
$289 for a room. On a Thursday afternoon. When he’d told me he was in Dayton.
I’m not proud of what I did that morning. I want to say that clearly before I tell you anything else. I’d been lied to for six months, and I was tired and hurt and angry, and I made a petty, ugly choice. I wanted him to spend his precious hotel afternoon on a bathroom floor instead of with whoever was wearing that perfume I kept smelling on his collar.
I thought it would make me feel better.
It didn’t.
Brad came downstairs at seven in his good blue shirt, the one I bought him for our anniversary, smelling of new cologne I’d never bought him. He kissed my forehead, absently, the way you’d pat a dog.
He picked up the BEST HUSBAND mug and drank half of it standing at the counter, scrolling his phone.
“I’ll be late tonight,” he said. “Don’t wait up.”
“Of course,” I said.
He grabbed his keys from the hook by the garage door. He hesitated, looking at the hook for a second as if he wasn’t sure they were his. Then he left.
I stood in the kitchen and listened to his Audi back out of the driveway. I looked at the half-empty mug in the sink.
My name is Emily Hollis. I’m thirty-four years old. I teach third grade at an elementary school in Blue Ash, Ohio, a suburb of Cincinnati. I’ve been married to Brad Hollis for nine years.
That morning, I believed my husband was having an affair with his executive assistant, and I believed he was about to leave me.
I was right about part of it. And so wrong about the rest that it still takes my breath away.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.