The Night of the Bitter Truth

I. Sleepless Shadows

It was the kind of night when sleep felt like a distant memory. My sleeping pills had run out, and thirst gnawed at me. I slipped from bed, careful not to wake Galina—my wife of twenty years—who breathed softly beside me. At sixty, I was a retired professor, living under doctor’s orders after a heart attack: rest, routine, no stress.

I shuffled barefoot down the corridor toward the kitchen, hoping to find valerian or something to ease my nerves. Our apartment was an ordinary three-room affair: bedroom, my study, a long hallway, living room, and kitchen. As I passed my study, a strip of light under the door made me pause.

Had I left the lamp on? No, I always checked before bed. Maybe Lena, our daughter? But she was away at university.

Then I heard voices—a whisper, two of them. One was Galina’s, the other unmistakably Slava’s, her son from a previous marriage. What was he doing here at midnight? And Galina—she’d been sleeping beside me moments ago.

A cold premonition crawled up my spine. I pressed my ear to the door. They were searching through my things. My safe was open, papers scattered across the desk. Not millions—just documents, savings, the professor’s emergency stash.

I pushed the door open. They froze, backs hunched, like thieves caught red-handed. Galina clutched her chest, eyes wide as saucers. Slava, in his street jacket, tried to smile but failed.

“Vitya,” Galina stammered, “why aren’t you asleep? You were supposed to…” She choked on the words. That phrase—”supposed to”—hit me harder than the heart attack I’d barely survived.

Slava recovered first, always quick when profit was involved. “Sorry, Dad. Didn’t mean to wake you. Mom was just looking for an old car insurance receipt. I need it tomorrow for the office.”

A receipt? At midnight? In my safe, for which only I had the key? The lie was so clumsy it made me sick.

I didn’t shout. I didn’t ask questions. I just stared at Galina, then turned and left, closing the door quietly behind me.

.

.

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II. The Fracture

Back in bed, my heart thudded—not with pain, but with a heavy, numbing dread. For the first time in my life, I did not trust my wife.

Galina had always been the image of devotion, fluttering around me with herbal teas and reminders about my pills. Lena, our daughter, called daily from her dorm. Even Slava, who used to ignore me, had become a regular visitor since my hospital stay.

But their fear tonight was not embarrassment—it was terror. I lay awake until dawn, listening to Galina’s calm breathing. The woman who’d just rifled through my safe slept soundly beside me.

Morning came. Galina brewed coffee—strong, with cinnamon, just the way I liked. She placed my pills on the tray: one for blood pressure, one for thinning my blood.

I stared at them, a cold fear growing. What if they weren’t what they seemed? Was my medication being tampered with? “Vitya, are you all right?” Galina asked, her voice concerned. “You’re pale. Should I check your pressure?”

I shook my head, dismissing the thought as paranoia. I swallowed the pills, forcing myself to believe I was imagining things.

Galina chatted about mundane things—plumbing, Lena’s exams. “By the way,” she said casually, “Slava came by late last night. I was looking for that insurance receipt. Found it in the living room, didn’t want to wake you.”

She repeated the same lie, looking me straight in the eye. They were united in deception, confident I was too frail or confused to notice.

When Galina left for the store, I locked myself in my study. Everything was in order, papers stacked neatly, the safe closed. They’d cleaned up, erasing all traces.

I called Lena. She answered sleepily, cheerful. “Hi, Dad! Why so early? Is everything okay?”

“Lena,” I hesitated, “I need to talk. Please listen.” I told her what happened—how I’d found Galina and Slava searching my safe.

She was quiet, then laughed gently. “Dad, you’re overthinking. Maybe they really needed the receipt. Maybe Mom thought she’d put it in your safe. Don’t worry. You need rest.”

She didn’t believe me. To her, I was just a sick old man spinning stories. Galina was simply a caring mother.

I was alone.

III. The Plan

If I wanted the truth, I had to act. What did they want? Money? Documents? The apartment? Slava had always coveted it.

But why had my sleeping pills run out precisely that night? Was it a coincidence, or were they counting on me to be knocked out? I needed to know.

I went to the pharmacy, bought a new bottle of sleeping pills—identical to the old one. On my way home, I formulated a plan. I would pretend to take the pills and see what happened.

That night, Galina entered the bedroom as usual. “Vitya, did you take your pill?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, dear. Thank you,” I lied, looking her in the eye.

She smiled, satisfied. “Sleep well, darling.”

I didn’t take the pill. I hid it under my tongue, then flushed it in the bathroom. I lay down, feigning sleep, heart pounding.

I waited.

IV. The Trap

Galina wished me goodnight and left. I heard her in the kitchen, then the living room, the TV murmuring quietly. Everything seemed normal.

But I lay motionless, listening.

A faint click at the front door. Slava had arrived. Whispered voices in the hallway—Galina and Slava.

They tiptoed into the bedroom. I risked a glance through half-closed eyes. In the moonlight, I saw them approach my bedside table.

Galina picked up the new bottle of sleeping pills. Slava handed her another, identical bottle. She swapped them, placing theirs on my table and hiding mine in her fist.

They left as quietly as they had come.

I waited, trembling. When I was sure they were gone, I examined the bottle. It was full. What was inside? Was it poison, a fatal dose, something to trigger another heart attack?

I realized this was not just theft. It was something darker—a quiet, domestic murder.

V. The Ally

I called Lena again, voice trembling. “Lena, it’s Dad. Please come. Right now. Don’t tell Mom. It’s a matter of life and death.”

She heard the urgency and agreed.

When she arrived, I led her to my study, locking the door. I showed her the two identical bottles—one from the pharmacy, one swapped by Galina and Slava.

She stared at them, her earlier disbelief melting into horror.

“Dad, what are you saying?” she whispered.

“I’m saying that in this bottle, there’s poison. Or enough to kill me.”

Lena was silent, then her eyes hardened. “We need evidence. We can’t let them know we know. I’ll take this bottle for testing.”

“But what about the bedside table?” I asked.

“We’ll replace it with something harmless. Vitamins, maybe.”

I found an old bottle of vitamins. Lena swapped it out, hiding the poisoned bottle in her bag.

“Now you have to act weak,” she said. “Play along. Make them believe their plan is working.”

I agreed, though the thought sickened me.

VI. The Performance

The next morning, Galina brought coffee and pills as usual. I feigned confusion, weakness. She watched me swallow a vitamin, believing it was her deadly gift.

All day, I stayed in bed, pretending to be ill. Galina hovered, cheerful, attentive, waiting for the pills to take effect.

In the evening, Lena called Galina, pretending to be distraught. “Mom, Dad’s worse. He doesn’t recognize me. I’m scared.”

Galina’s tone shifted from concern to business. “Are the buyers coming? Tonight? Yes, yes, bring them. We’ll be ready.”

She called Slava. “Slava, it’s happening. Lena’s found buyers. Seven o’clock.”

They were ready to sell the apartment, confident I was on my way out.

VII. The Confrontation

At seven, the doorbell rang. Galina greeted Lena and two men—Sergey Petrovich and Igor Matveyev, posing as buyers. Slava played the host, showing off the apartment, boasting about its features.

They discussed the paperwork, the “problem” of the living owner.

“He’s very ill,” Slava said, standing at my bedroom door. “Doctors say it’s a matter of days. He may not last the night.”

I lay still, listening as my death was bartered.

Then, slowly, I sat up. “I think I’ve changed my mind about dying,” I said, my voice clear and strong.

The room froze. Galina gasped, clutching her throat. Slava dropped his folder, papers scattering.

Sergey Petrovich stepped forward, pulling a voice recorder from his coat. He played back Slava’s words about my imminent death.

“We’re not buyers,” he announced. “We’re lawyers. And you just confessed to conspiracy to commit murder.”

Lena stepped into the room, holding the poisoned bottle. “This will be enough for the police,” she said, her voice cold.

Galina collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Slava protested, but the evidence was overwhelming.

“Should we call the police now?” Sergey Petrovich asked.

I looked at Galina—the woman I’d loved, who’d just tried to kill me. I couldn’t bear the thought of sending her to prison.

“No,” I said. “We’ll handle this ourselves.”

Lena understood. “Get up,” she told Galina. “Take Slava and leave. Now. You’re finished here.”

Galina begged, but Lena was unmoved. “Go. Take him. You’re done.”

Slava dragged Galina out. At the door, Galina looked back, hatred in her eyes. “You’re not my daughter,” she hissed.

“And you’re not my mother,” Lena replied.

The door slammed shut, echoing through the apartment.

VIII. Aftermath

Sergey Petrovich offered his help—divorce, legal protection. I realized he was the son of an old colleague, returning a favor.

After months of legal proceedings, Galina and Slava were gone. Lena took a leave from university, staying home to care for me.

We rearranged the apartment, erasing the ghosts. No more pills cluttered the kitchen—just tea, two cups, and a chessboard.

I struggled to recover, not from illness, but from the betrayal. Lena forced me to walk, to play chess, to live again.

One day, as we sat at the board, I moved my white queen. “You know, Lena,” I said quietly, “I spent my life fearing heart attacks and high blood pressure. Turns out, the deadliest sleeping pill is blind trust. It numbs the mind, the soul, better than any drug.”

Lena looked at me, long and hard, then smiled for the first time in months. “Then it’s good we ran out of pills, Dad.”

She moved her black rook. “Your turn.”

IX. Epilogue

I’ve told you everything, just as it happened. I lived a long life and learned one simple truth: the most valuable thing isn’t apartments or money. It’s the people who sit with you at the chessboard when the world has collapsed.

Cherish your loved ones. Take five minutes today and tell them you love them.