Not a research participant.
Not someone whose future was being decided by other people.
Just a woman who loved teaching and still had a meaningful life ahead of her.
One evening, after working in my garden, I prepared myself a warm drink.
Milk, honey, cinnamon, and a touch of vanilla.
For a moment, I paused as I stirred it.
I remembered Daniel standing in the kitchen.
The dark bottle.
The questions he wouldn’t answer.
The way he’d insisted that his decisions were always for my benefit.
Then I looked around my own home.
Nobody was questioning my judgment.
Nobody was insisting I follow a routine I didn’t understand.
Nobody was making decisions about my health without my permission.
I carried the cup to the window and took a small sip.
It tasted exactly as it had when my mother prepared it during my childhood.
Warm.
Sweet.
Comforting.
I drank a little more.
Then I set it down.
