Chapter 3 - The Gaslighting
The silence in the house was no longer a comforting blanket; it was a physical weight, pressing against David’s eardrums like the water in a deep pool. He sat at the oak desk in the study, the room smelling of lemon polish and old paper, trying to organize the financial files from the firm. His head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that had been plaguing him for days, growing sharper whenever he thought of his mother or his wife’s recent behavior.
He needed a break. He needed to clear his mind.
David reached into the bottom drawer of the desk, pulling out a stack of old tax returns to make room. Tucked beneath a crumpled envelope was a leather-bound notebook, its spine cracked and worn. It wasn't his. He didn't own a leather-bound notebook. It wasn't the firm's ledger. It felt personal, intimate.
Curiosity, or perhaps a desperate need to find a crack in the wall of his reality, made him open it.
The pages were filled with neat, cursive handwriting. At first, it seemed to be gardening notes—dates, seed types, soil pH levels. But as David flipped deeper, the tone shifted. The notes on the hydrangeas grew sharper.
*“Margaret is in the garden again. She was staring at the roses for an hour. She doesn't belong here. She thinks she owns the soil.”*
David’s breath hitched. He turned another page.
*“David came home late. He looked tired. I told him to rest. He doesn't listen to me anymore. He’s so tired.”*
*“She is poisoning us. I saw her put something in his tea. I won't let her take him from me.”*
The hairs on David’s arms stood up. The handwriting was Sarah’s. But the content... it was terrifying. It painted his mother as a malevolent force, a woman trying to steal his health and his sanity. But why would Sarah write this? And why was it hidden in his desk?
Suddenly, the floorboards creaked on the other side of the door. The handle turned slowly, the metal knob clicking softly.
David scrambled to close the notebook, but the leather cover snapped shut with a sharp thwack.
Sarah stood in the doorway, holding a tray of tea. She wore a soft cardigan, her expression one of practiced concern. She didn't look angry. She looked... sad. That was the worst part. Her eyes were wide, a little too wide, filled with a pity that twisted David’s stomach.
“David?” she asked, her voice smooth, like warm honey. She set the tray down on the desk, her movements graceful. “What are you doing? You look pale.”
David gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles white. “Where did you get this, Sarah?”
She followed his gaze to the notebook. A flicker of something crossed her face—panic, but it was buried instantly beneath a mask of confusion. “That’s my garden journal, David. I thought you’d thrown it out.”
“It’s in my desk drawer,” David said, his voice trembling. “I’ve never seen it before. It talks about Mom... it says she’s poisoning us.”
Sarah walked over to him. She reached out and took the notebook from his hand. Her fingers brushed his, cool and deliberate. She didn't open it immediately. She just held it, studying his face with a terrifying intensity.
“Margaret has been very upset lately,” she said softly, her tone shifting from confusion to a gentle, lecturing murmur. “She’s been acting very strangely in the garden. I’ve been trying to document her behavior to help the doctor.”
David stared at her. “But... but it says she’s poisoning you. It says she’s trying to take you away.”
Sarah sighed, a sound of deep, maternal exasperation. She placed the notebook on the desk and placed her hands on his shoulders, her grip firm and grounding. “You’re exhausted, David. The stress of the merger, the way your mother has been acting... it’s all getting to you. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“No, I read it!” David protested, stepping back. “It’s right here. It’s in your handwriting.”
Sarah’s expression didn't change. She didn't get angry. She simply tilted her head, a sad, pitying smile playing on her lips. “That’s because it is mine, David. But you’re misremembering. You’re mixing things up. You’re so tired that your brain is playing tricks on you.”
She picked up the teacup and held it out to him. “Drink this. It’s chamomile. It will help you relax.”
David looked at the cup. He looked at the notebook. He looked at his wife, whose eyes held a terrifying certainty. For a second, he saw the logic in her words. He was tired. He was stressed. He was confused by Margaret’s sudden hostility. Maybe he had read it wrong. Maybe he was losing his mind.
“David?” Sarah prompted, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a hypnotic lullaby.
David took the cup. His hand shook violently, spilling a few drops of the brown liquid onto his sleeve. He ignored it. He looked at the notebook, then back at Sarah.
“I... I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Sarah smiled, a genuine, warm smile that made the knot in his chest loosen, just a fraction. “It’s okay. I understand. We’re going to get through this together. You and me against the world.”
She steered him toward the sofa, but David stopped. He looked back at the desk. The notebook sat there, innocuous and leather-bound, mocking him. He felt a cold draft, but when he looked around the room, the window was shut tight.
May you like
He sat on the sofa, the silence of the house wrapping around him like a shroud. He took a sip of the tea. It tasted like nothing. As he swallowed, the throbbing in his head intensified, the edges of his vision blurring, and he realized with a sinking dread that he couldn't remember how he had gotten the notebook. He couldn't remember opening the drawer.
He looked at Sarah, who was pouring him a second cup, and for the first time, he didn't see his wife. He saw a stranger standing in his living room, holding the strings of his sanity.
