Those letters were mine. Every curve, every pressure of the pen. I would have recognized them anywhere. For years, I had written shopping lists, little notes to Mark, reminders for Leo — and now those same words were accusing me.

“I… I didn’t write this,” I whispered. “I swear it wasn’t me…”

Detective Miller remained silent, watching me with a cold, analytical gaze.

“Were there problems in your marriage?” he asked without emotion.

“Every couple has problems sometimes… But we loved each other. We had a son…”

“Debts? Financial trouble? Life insurance?”

Each question hit me like a blow.

“Do you think I… that I poisoned them?” My voice trembled.

He didn’t answer. And that silence was worse than any accusation.

They took me to the station in the pouring rain, my clothes soaked, my hands still stained with blood. One thought kept repeating in my head: Leo is alive. Please, let him live.

In intensive care, I could only see my son through a glass wall. He lay surrounded by tubes, pale and fragile.

“He was poisoned,” the doctor said. “We found cyanide in the juice. A very high dose. If you had arrived ten minutes later…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

I collapsed.

Cyanide.

That bitter almond smell.

I remembered.

Two weeks earlier.

Mark had called me from work.

“Have you seen my old toolbox?”

“It’s in the basement. Why?”

“I just… need to check something.”

I didn’t think much of it.

A mistake.

The next day, I noticed that a box of chemicals was missing from the basement. It had been there for years, from the time when Mark tried to fix everything.

I pushed the thought away.

Then came the strange phone calls. He would step outside to talk. He became nervous, distant.

I thought it was stress.

I was wrong.

They questioned me for eight hours.

“Where were you last night?”

“At the supermarket. Then at a friend’s place.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Yes…”

“Why is the note written in your handwriting?”

“I don’t know!”

“Why is this file on your laptop?”

I froze.

They showed me the screen.

The document had been created three days earlier.

From my account.

On my computer.

The text read:

“Forgive me for everything. I can’t go on. Take Leo. We have no right to live.”

My signature at the bottom.

My world fell apart.

“I didn’t write this,” I whispered. “I swear.”

Then came another blow.

“The home security camera was turned off an hour before the incident. From your phone.”

I remembered.

That evening, my phone had died. Mark had lent me his power bank. I left my phone next to the laptop.

He knew my password.

He always said, “In case something ever happens.”

I trusted him.

Too much.

The truth came out on the third day.

A cybercrime investigator came to see me.

“We recovered your husband’s messages,” he said. “He was texting an unknown number.”

He showed them to me.

“The money will come when this is over.”

“It has to look like her decision.”

“The note is ready.”

“The child won’t suffer long.”

I screamed.

This wasn’t suicide.

It was a trap.

Mark was drowning in debt. Gambling, betting, loans.

He was being threatened.

He decided the only way out was to sacrifice me.

He poisoned himself.

And almost killed our son.

He wanted me in prison.

Leo survived.

When he woke up, he whispered:

“Mom… did Dad want us to sleep forever?”

I couldn’t answer.

I just held him.

Now I live with this every day.

Knowing that the man I loved most almost took everything from me.

And every time Leo pours himself a glass of juice, he smells it first.

I watch.

And I pray.