I truly never thought the day would come when I would be so utterly exhausted by life itself. Like a squeezed lemon, I lie in bed in the mornings, barely able to open my eyes, as if invisible strings are pulling them down. I sleep—as if like a bear in its den—for ten hours straight, yet still wake up feeling like I was taken apart piece by piece and then put back together, but not quite right. By noon, I barely come to, as if surfacing from a heavy fog, and by evening—it feels like I’m being laid into a coffin. My head spins as if I drank a bottle of vodka in the morning, though I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in over ten years. Nausea is constant, as if I’m perpetually hungover, but without having had a night before. My hair started falling out so much that I stopped washing it in the bathroom and started gathering it like a harvest. Strands come out almost whole, and with horror, I think soon I will be completely bald, like a potato at the end of winter. I’ve lost so much weight I’m unrecognizable—twenty kilograms in about six months, as if someone invisible is draining my flesh and strength. Before, I might have gone on a buckwheat diet for a month and lost five kilos—but those would, annoyingly, come back like offended and vengeful guests.
Andrey, my husband, is going crazy with worry. Like a hero from old fairy tales, every day he drags me to new doctors, as if somewhere behind another white-coat door hides a magic pill that cures all. We’ve been through an entire army of specialists—tests, examinations, consultations, conclusions that look like crosswords with no answers. We’ve spent so much money it could have bought a whole SUV, maybe more than one. But all for nothing. Everyone just shrugs as if we came to them not for help but for puzzles. They prescribe vitamins, advise rest, as if I don’t know I need to rest. But how can I rest when I don’t even have the strength to get up?
“Verunya, you better lie down,” Andrey says, fussing over me like a caring hen. “I’ll lay out a blanket, fix your pillow… I’ll make some soup and brew you some herbal tea—you love the mint with lemon balm, right?”
I nodded gratefully, watching his broad back. Fifteen years together—a whole era. And he’s still so caring, always by my side. And now, when I completely fell apart, he’s become like a shadow, never leaving my side. He even begged for time off work, and that’s despite his boss being the kind of person everyone avoids like the plague. Yet this time, the boss unexpectedly softened. As if fate itself decided to help us.
“We’ll cure you, my dear,” he whispers into my temple, kissing my cheek. “We’ll get through this, just don’t give up.”
My parents passed away long ago, leaving me alone in this world. All because of a cursed accident, after which I can’t recall their faces without tears. My sister lives in Novosibirsk, busy with her own life—husband, children, a job that consumes all her time. Friends? What friends at our age? They long ago scattered like autumn leaves—some with kids, some with marital quarrels, some with new romances. They come to birthdays, give a peck on the cheek, then dash back into the whirlpool of their problems. So my only fortress, a wall behind which I can hide, is my Andryukha. As if he’s a living fortress, and inside it, I’m safe.
In mid-March, when the weather outside was nasty slush, Andrey got me an appointment with a new doctor—Sergey Palych, an oncologist at a private clinic. My husband literally bent over backwards to get to him—through acquaintances, connections, paying a lot. At the reception, he even raised his voice, almost shouted:
“Stop messing with my wife! We’ve been running around doctors for six months with no results! We need the very best specialist, no matter what!”
The receptionist shrank back as if caught stealing and quickly arranged the appointment. That’s how we ended up with Sergey Palych.
The doctor looked just right: about forty-five, neat beard, smart, attentive eyes. He sat at the desk, flipping through my tests as if solving a riddle no one had cracked before.
“So weakness, weight loss, nausea, hair loss? All for six months? And getting worse every day?”
I nodded slightly—had no strength for talking. Andryukha sat beside me, holding my hand so tightly, as if afraid I’d vanish.
“Doctor, my wife is wasting away before my eyes!” His voice trembled. “What to do? Cancer, right? Or worse? Why is everyone silent?”
Sergey Palych looked at him, then at me—with a look of pity.
“Cancer is ruled out,” he said thoughtfully. “But the symptoms are truly alarming. We need further, more precise tests.”
“Anything!” Andrey jumped up, pulling out his wallet. “Just save my wife!”
“Alright,” the doctor nodded. “I’ll write referrals. And you, Vera Nikolaevna, please come alone in three days.”
“Why alone?” Andrey exploded. “She’s so weak!”
“A private consultation is necessary,” explained the doctor. “Some questions require confidentiality.”
My husband frowned but didn’t argue.
The next three days I lived in a fog. Sleeping, waking, drinking the tea Andryukha brewed. He didn’t leave my side, cooked soups, monitored my pills as if I were a fragile porcelain figurine. Then came the day of the appointment.
When I entered the office, the doctor was already waiting, writing in his notebook.
“Have a seat, Vera Nikolaevna,” he nodded. “How do you feel today?”
“A little better,” I answered. “Nausea has lessened. Maybe the meds are working?”
“What medications exactly?”
I listed everything prescribed before. Added that Andryukha makes me herbal teas and watches my routine.
“Who prepares these teas?”
“My husband, who else?” I smiled. “He’s gold, not just a man.”
Sergey Palych nodded and wrote something.
Then he stood, checked the door, came back, and spoke softly, almost whispering:
“Vera Nikolaevna, what I’m about to say may seem wild. But please, listen carefully.”
I tensed. Thought I was about to hear a verdict.
“It’s not cancer,” he said, looking at Andryukha’s silhouette behind frosted glass. “You are being slowly poisoned. Your blood contains traces of arsenic. This poison causes all your symptoms.”
My head spun. Arsenic? Poison? Who? Then like lightning—it could only be Andrey, who cooks my food and tea?
“No,” I shook my head. “It can’t be. He loves me!”
“I understand,” the doctor showed me paper with numbers. “But it’s not a mistake. Someone is systematically poisoning you.”
“Why would he do this?” I whispered.
“Motives vary. Insurance, inheritance… Or Munchausen syndrome—when a person causes illness in a loved one to then heroically care for them. Everyone admires what a caring husband!”
Suddenly I remembered how Andrey described my “severe illness,” how everyone sympathized, how he complained about being tired caring for me.
“What do I do?” I nearly cried.
“Behave as usual,” the doctor said. “Take nothing from your husband. Throw away any food or tea he gives you. Tell him you’re nauseous. I’ll handle the rest.”
He gave me a prescription and a bottle of pills.
“Take these secretly. Here’s my card—call if needed.”
I left the office feeling like I was in a neural network—everything blurred, unreal. Andrey immediately bombarded me with questions:
“So? Diagnosis?”
“Not cancer, it seems,” I mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “New meds, diet… Need more walks.”
But inside, fear grew. Because the man beside me was not a hero. He was a traitor.
“Alone?” Andrey snapped, as if doused with ice water. His face flushed, eyes full of rage. “Are you sane? What the hell? You can barely stand! Is that doctor sane?”
“He says my condition depends a lot on my mind,” I tried to speak gently, almost tenderly, though inside I trembled with fear and hatred. “It’s psychosomatic. I’m too used to being sick, and I need to return to a normal life. To be myself again.”
“Nonsense!” he growled, fists clenched. “Complete nonsense! Tomorrow we’ll find another doctor! That one probably escaped from a circus—reeks of nonsense from ten steps away!”
“No,” I sharply pulled away from him, feeling goosebumps from his touch. “Let’s just try what he said. I think he’s right.”
Andrey grimaced as if he swallowed a whole lemon. But he didn’t argue. For now, at least.
At home, as usual, he sat me down in a chair, wrapped me in a blanket like a newborn puppy, then dashed to the kitchen like a fairy godmother ready to work a miracle. I heard dishes clatter, cupboards open and close, and him mumbling. Half an hour later, he came with a tray: a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of herbal tea.
“Chicken broth,” he chirped like a songbird, but his eyes flashed something cold and alien. “And mint and honey tea. Drink, sunshine, you need strength. Without strength—nowhere.”
I looked at the soup and almost threw up. Could it really have…?
“Thanks, Andryush,” I murmured, trying hard to smile. “But I have no appetite. Maybe later?”
“Vera, you must eat!” His voice turned harsh, almost commanding. “Look at yourself—skin and bones. Want to be squeezed into a coffin? Come on, at least a few spoonfuls!”
He sat next to me, eyes locked like a hunter not letting prey escape. I had to play along. I took a spoon, slowly brought it to my lips, pretended to eat, but actually poured the soup back into the bowl.
“Can’t,” I pushed the plate away. “Really nauseous. Sorry.”
“Then tea,” he insisted. “It helps nausea.”
I took the cup, sipped but didn’t swallow. Andrey sat staring at me with such intensity, I felt a chill run down my skin. I used to think that was a loving husband’s gaze. Now it was like a hunter watching his prey slowly lose strength.
“I’ll lie down,” I said, pushing the cup away. “My head’s spinning again.”
“Of course, dear,” he immediately caught my arm, like I was a fragile figurine not to be left unattended. “I’ll help you to the bedroom.”
At night I pretended to sleep but really watched Andrey through half-closed lashes. He sat nearby, looking at me as if I were a secret he hadn’t yet solved. His gaze was so intense and creepy, I felt goosebumps crawl all over. Either he really cared, or he was just counting how many days I had left…
In the morning, I said I felt a little better and wanted to make my own breakfast.
“What?” he was shocked. “I’ll do it! You mustn’t tire yourself.”
“The doctor said I need to move more,” I insisted. “I feel some energy. I want to cook my porridge myself. Enough lying around like a wreck.”
“No!” he barked, his voice steel-cold, making me flinch. “I know better what you need. Lie down and don’t be stubborn!”
He rushed to the kitchen, and as soon as his footsteps faded, I took out the pills Sergey Palych gave me from my bag. Swallowed one with water from the glass on the nightstand. These pills were my only chance—to survive, cleanse my body, and maybe regain my mind.
Then the strange game began. I pretended to weaken more and more to avoid suspicion but watched Andrey closely. He grew more nervous and irritable seeing that I hardly ate and constantly complained of nausea.
“Eat, or you’ll die a weakling!” he shouted, almost forcing a spoon to my lips. “Come on, one more bite!”
“I can’t,” I turned away. “Sorry, Andryush.”
One evening, when he went to the store, I dared to search the kitchen. In the far corner of the tea cabinet, I found a box with no label. Opened it—white powder inside. My heart sank. Could this be the poison?
I immediately called Sergey Palych.
“I found some white powder,” I whispered into the phone, afraid Andrey would come back early. “I think it’s it.”
“Don’t touch it,” the doctor answered quickly. “We’re on our way. Where is your husband?”
“At the store, but he’ll be back soon.”
“Leave the house immediately!” His voice grew urgent. “Take documents, phone, money. Go to a café, neighbors—anywhere. Just don’t stay alone.”
I grabbed my bag, stuffed everything needed, and ran out of the apartment. The rain was nasty and cold, but I didn’t care—the adrenaline surged, pushing me forward. I ran to the corner café, hid in the farthest corner, and ordered tea I didn’t even touch.
Forty minutes later Sergey Palych entered the café, followed by two plainclothes men. Their stern faces made it clear—they were not just doctors.
“You’re safe now,” the doctor said, sitting beside me. “These are police officers. They’ll help you.”
“Are you sure it was arsenic?” I asked, still hoping for a miracle.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he answered sympathetically. “We took samples from your home; they’re in the lab now. But the preliminary test confirmed it.”
“Why?” I couldn’t hold back tears. “Why did he do it?”
“Insurance,” said one policeman. “Your husband has huge debts. And you have a big insurance policy. If you died, he’d get the money.”
I remembered how he persuaded me to take out that insurance months ago. “It’s for you, so you feel safe,” he said then.
“So he wanted to kill me?” I couldn’t believe it. “The man I lived with for fifteen years?”
“People sometimes change,” Sergey Palych said quietly. “For the worse. But we intervened in time.”
That same night Andrey was arrested. The search found not only arsenic but also books on toxicology, notes with doses, symptoms, and schedules. He kept everything like a villain from a detective novel.
At interrogation, he first denied everything but cracked when presented with evidence. Debts, gangsters, insurance payout—it all fit into a nightmare puzzle. He claimed to love me, would never harm me. But I no longer recognized this man.
The court sentenced him to twelve years in a strict regime. I didn’t attend the sessions—had no strength. Instead, I started a new life. I healed, restored my body and soul, cleansing not only physical but emotional poison.
Now I live in another city, working for an organization that helps women fight domestic violence and betrayal. Sometimes I think: what if not for Sergey Palych? If he hadn’t noticed the oddities in my tests? Probably, I wouldn’t be here anymore.
Life is slowly getting better. I’ve started trusting people again, but cautiously. And every time someone offers me tea, I remember Andrey’s gaze—full of fake care and hidden rage. And politely refuse. I’ll brew my own, thank you.
That’s how it is. And I’m not the only one. It turns out loved ones poison us more often than we think. Just not everyone is lucky enough to meet a doctor who can see the truth behind the façade of the “perfect family.”