Three days of pretending.
Three days of smiling at my mother while rage burned inside me.
On the fourth day, she arrived with a thermos of chicken soup.
“I made it just how he likes,” she said, kissing my forehead.
I let her in.
Paola followed, carrying snacks, smiling.
I smiled back.
I have never hated myself more.
When my mother thought she was alone, she took out a small white jar—no label. She opened the thermos, poured in powder, stirred it slowly.
The camera recorded everything.
No doubt.
No interpretation.
Proof.
The police came the next morning with a warrant. Paola broke down immediately, claiming she didn’t know, blaming my mother. But my mother didn’t cry.
She only looked at me as they handcuffed her.
“You’re protecting the wrong man,” she said.
I stepped forward.
“I’m protecting my son.”
I thought that was the worst of it.
I was wrong.
