At family dinner, my husband secretly emptied a tiny white packet into my soup, then sneered, “Eat it, Diane. Stop pretending to be sick for attention.”

I didn’t confront him.I didn’t even step into the kitchen.

I remained in the dim hallway, one hand against the wall, watching Mark stir the powder into the steaming broth as casually as if he were adding sugar to coffee.

Then he glanced over his shoulder.

That small movement told me everything.

People don’t usually check whether anyone is watching when they’re adding ordinary seasoning.

I stepped backward before he could see me and quietly entered the guest bathroom.

For several seconds, I stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked pale.