A Polish nanny who didn't know English, the first to see through my secret hidden in the food.-11
Silent Dinner
Dinner: chicken and vegetables. We sit at the table. My wife talks about her office, something a colleague said. I nod. From the sink, Marta washing dishes – water sounds covering other noises. My wife pauses, looks at me. "Sleeping lately?" I hesitate. "Alright." "You look tired." "Project deadline. Stress." "You look pale," she doesn't look away. I glance down, push vegetables around my plate. "Maybe a slight chill." Just then, the faucet stops. Kitchen falls silent. Marta doesn't speak. Picks up a cloth, begins wiping the counter. One stroke. Then another. Deliberate. My wife's voice softens: "Should you see a doctor?" "No," I say. "Just tired." She doesn't push, shifts back to her work day. Marta finishes. Hangs the cloth up. Walks out of the kitchen.
She Stops Cleaning My Cup
Marta washes all the dishes. One exception: the blue mug. If it appears in the sink, she ignores it. Cleans the plates beside it, polishes the pans, puts other cups away. The sink ends up holding only that mug, lonely, sometimes with old coffee stains or a milky ring at the bottom. She leaves it. So if I want it the next morning, I have to wash it myself. Doing this, Marta is usually nearby making breakfast. She doesn't turn, but I know she's aware. Chopping bread, her hand pauses for half a beat. Or her back stiffens almost imperceptibly before resuming. She never says a word. Once, I tested it. Left the mug dirty in the sink. Day one: there. Day two: still there. Day three morning: the mug remained, its coffee stain deepened, while the surrounding pile of dishes had been cleared.
Dreams Blur Reality
The pills cause vivid dreams. More than vivid – intrusive. Once, I dreamt Marta stood at my bedside. Wearing her daytime clothes. Speaking Polish. Sentences flowed, but I understood nothing. Her expression was stern. Pointed at me, then towards my nightstand. The pill bottle sat there. In the dream, I tried to speak, but no sound came. Woke in pitch darkness. Heart pounding. Sat up, switched on the bedside lamp. Light stabbed my eyes. Empty room. Door closed. Got up, checked the lock: secured. Back in bed, sleep wouldn't return. Stared at the ceiling until dawn. Next morning, seeing Marta preparing breakfast. Her expression normal. "Good morning" exchanged. I didn't mention the dream. Avoided eye contact all day.
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Dinner: chicken and vegetables. We sit at the table. My wife talks about her office, something a colleague said. I nod. From the sink, Marta washing dishes – water sounds covering other noises. My wife pauses, looks at me. "Sleeping lately?" I hesitate. "Alright." "You look tired." "Project deadline. Stress." "You look pale," she doesn't look away. I glance down, push vegetables around my plate. "Maybe a slight chill." Just then, the faucet stops. Kitchen falls silent. Marta doesn't speak. Picks up a cloth, begins wiping the counter. One stroke. Then another. Deliberate. My wife's voice softens: "Should you see a doctor?" "No," I say. "Just tired." She doesn't push, shifts back to her work day. Marta finishes. Hangs the cloth up. Walks out of the kitchen.
She Stops Cleaning My Cup
Marta washes all the dishes. One exception: the blue mug. If it appears in the sink, she ignores it. Cleans the plates beside it, polishes the pans, puts other cups away. The sink ends up holding only that mug, lonely, sometimes with old coffee stains or a milky ring at the bottom. She leaves it. So if I want it the next morning, I have to wash it myself. Doing this, Marta is usually nearby making breakfast. She doesn't turn, but I know she's aware. Chopping bread, her hand pauses for half a beat. Or her back stiffens almost imperceptibly before resuming. She never says a word. Once, I tested it. Left the mug dirty in the sink. Day one: there. Day two: still there. Day three morning: the mug remained, its coffee stain deepened, while the surrounding pile of dishes had been cleared.
Dreams Blur Reality
The pills cause vivid dreams. More than vivid – intrusive. Once, I dreamt Marta stood at my bedside. Wearing her daytime clothes. Speaking Polish. Sentences flowed, but I understood nothing. Her expression was stern. Pointed at me, then towards my nightstand. The pill bottle sat there. In the dream, I tried to speak, but no sound came. Woke in pitch darkness. Heart pounding. Sat up, switched on the bedside lamp. Light stabbed my eyes. Empty room. Door closed. Got up, checked the lock: secured. Back in bed, sleep wouldn't return. Stared at the ceiling until dawn. Next morning, seeing Marta preparing breakfast. Her expression normal. "Good morning" exchanged. I didn't mention the dream. Avoided eye contact all day.
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