You see, my husband was the kind of man people trusted instinctively: kind eyes, quiet voice, impeccable manners. In public, he was devoted. At home, he was meticulous — too meticulous.

He managed our finances, our social calendar, even my health. Whenever I felt tired or confused, he would bring me that same steaming cup. “Just herbs,” he’d say. “Good for your nerves.”

And slowly, imperceptibly, my world began to shrink.
I forgot appointments. I misplaced names. My reflection grew unfamiliar. He started finishing my sentences, making decisions on my behalf. He told friends I was “slowing down.”

It was subtle — a gentle erasure, one sip at a time.

The Day the Fog Lifted

One winter night, he was late bringing my tea. I remember glancing at the clock: 10:47 p.m. For the first time in years, I poured myself a glass of water instead.