The moment he saw me, the word escaped his lips: "Mom!" But he was still just as eager to learn. My husband, Jason, is one of the nation’s leading pharmaceutical magnates. The day he perfected his new drug, “Lethe Water,” my son, Damian, smiled for the first time in years. “If we give this to Mom, will she finally stop loving us?” My husband nodded, his decision absolute. And so, my son brought the potion to me, tricking me into drinking it. I laughed at the bitter irony and drained the glass. Father and son breathed a sigh of relief. At last, they could be with their idealized first love, Layla, without guilt or consequence. But later, why did they come to me, crying, over and over again? "Do you really not love us at all anymore?" 1 When my son, Damian, held the cup of dark green liquid out to me, I knew. It was time. He and his father were making their move. I didn’t take it. I just watched him, my gaze silent and heavy. For fifteen years, I had never looked at him with such dead stillness. I knew what was in that cup. It was the latest creation from the labs of Vance Pharmaceuticals, my husband Jason’s company. Its name: “Lethe.” A simple, eloquent name for a potion that would sever the drinker’s emotional ties to their most beloved. And I, without a doubt, loved Jason. I loved my son. A fortune teller once told me my heart was a finely-tuned instrument, so sensitive and full of feeling that it would eventually shatter from the vibrations of love and loss. She was right. I walked with Jason for eighteen years, from a cramped basement lab to the gleaming corporate office. Along the way, we had our son, Damian. I walked with him for fifteen years, from a helpless, wailing infant to the sharp, brilliant young man he was today. They were my entire world. My love for them was instinctual, a force that flowed from the very core of my being. But then, when Damian was eight, Jason’s unforgettable first love returned. Layla. She stood there, her dark hair coiled in an elegant bun, a pure white dress draping her slender frame. Her eyes smiled, her lips curved, and she gave a small, gentle wave. "Jules, you silly goose," she'd said. "You're not as handsome as you used to be." And just like that, Jason, a man who had already conquered his world, was conquered himself, undone by a sliver of moonlight from his past. He had once told me he hated her, that she had chosen a future abroad over a future with him. It was I who had pulled him back from the edge of a bridge, I who had stood by him as he clawed his way out of that basement and took his seat at the head of his empire. My son, Damian, fell for her too. He had always been a cold child—brilliant, calm, a perfect reflection of his father. But when Layla ruffled his hair, a blush crept up his cheeks, and he shyly called her "Aunt Layla." His "Aunt Layla" had stolen both their hearts with effortless grace. They became an inseparable family of three, and I became the outsider, a ghost in my own home. I fought. I screamed. I cried through entire nights, my sanity fraying at the edges. But all they said was, “Stop acting like a madwoman. It’s embarrassing.” Layla never called me a madwoman. Instead, she left a letter, saying she was returning my family to me. A letter she made sure to give directly to Jason. Then, she vanished without a trace. Her departure didn’t save my family. It shattered it completely. Jason clutched that letter, his eyes bloodshot with rage, and called me an unreasonable harpy who had driven Layla away. Damian, his teeth clenched, threw his school backpack at my head and swore he would never call me "Mom" again. From that day on, the life bled out of our home. Jason moved into an apartment at his company headquarters. For seven years, we did not share a bed. For seven years, Damian never spoke a word to me willingly. The word "Mom" never again passed his lips. Until now. Now, he was serving me tea. His face was a mask of eager anticipation, waiting for me to drink the Lethe. 2 The dark green liquid swirled like a miniature vortex in the cup. Damian’s hands weren’t steady. At fifteen, he was still just a boy. A self-mocking smile touched my lips. "What kind of tea is this?" I knew it wasn't tea. But a part of me, the part with that damned, finely-tuned heart, still clung to a sliver of hope. I was born to torture myself. "It's just normal tea. Drink it," Damian mumbled, his eyes darting away, lashes hiding his gaze. He had learned to lie. I looked away, struggling to keep my voice even. "Where's your father? It's my birthday. If you're serving me tea, the least he could do is bring me a cake." My tone was thick with a sarcasm born from seven birthdays spent in silence. "It's your birthday today? Oh, right. It is. That's why I came home early." Damian glanced up. "Dad will be back soon. He had to take care of something first." As if on cue, the front door opened. Jason strode in, immaculate in his suit. His usually stern, cold face held a flicker of the same barely concealed anticipation as his son's. They were both waiting. Waiting for me to drink. Once I did, my so-called "finely-tuned heart" would no longer feel a thing. I wouldn’t be a hysterical harpy anymore. I wouldn't embarrass them. Jason and Damian could finally stand by Layla’s side, openly, and welcome her as the true matriarch of the family. As for me? I wouldn't love them anymore, so why would I ever cause a scene again? That was their logic. Their perfect, cold solution. I let out a short, bitter laugh and took the cup. Jason, still by the door, pressed his lips together. He took two steps forward and then stopped. Seeing his empty hands, I asked pointedly, "Did you forget to bring my present?" "What?" His brow furrowed into a familiar frown. It had become his habit when speaking to me, a clear signal of his impatience. "Dad, it's her birthday," Damian chimed in, covering for him. "You said you bought a gift, remember?" Jason feigned a moment of realization. "Right, of course. I know it's your birthday. I bought you that grand piano you always wanted. It's at the office. I forgot to have it delivered. I'll bring it tomorrow." He was a much better liar than his son, his expression a perfect mask of sincerity. I nodded slowly, my gaze dropping to the liquid in the cup. Father and son fell silent. A strange, heavy quiet descended upon the house. They were waiting. 3 But I wouldn't drink. Not yet. Eighteen years of devotion had finally curdled into a bitter, stubborn resentment. How could I just let it all go? They were still lying to me, right to my face, pretending they remembered my birthday. I would tear down their facade. Glancing from one to the other, I slammed the cup down on the table. "Thanks, but I'm not thirsty." "You have to drink it, even if you're not thirsty! It's from your son!" Jason's composure finally cracked. He strode over, picked up the cup, and thrust it at me. "Drink it. You'll break his heart." Damian nodded eagerly beside him. I wanted to laugh. To throw my head back and howl with derisive laughter. My voice dripped with scorn. "Don't be in such a rush. I won't keep you from your precious Layla. She's waiting for you, isn't she?" I had known for a while that Layla was back. Why else would Jason have been living at the lab, working day and night to perfect his little potion? The color drained from Jason’s face. His fingers tightened around the cup. He finally understood. I was toying with them. I knew exactly what this was. Damian’s young face went pale, his eyes filled with guilt. I sneered. "Don't panic. I just want to know one thing. Was this your plan with Layla all along?" This potion had been in development for years. I had been a part of their calculations for a long, long time. They had certainly worked hard to get rid of me. "You… Fine. Since you already know, there’s no point in hiding it." Jason’s expression shifted in an instant, his emotions locked back down. He was always a man of cold control. Now, it was time to lay the cards on the table. "We started thinking about this seven years ago," he said, his voice laced with resentment. "You have only yourself to blame. You were unreasonable, a complete harpy!" "And I," he continued, a martyr, "refuse to abandon the wife of my youth. Our son cannot sever the blood that ties him to you. So, using Lethe to make you… normal… is the best solution for everyone." Normal? So, loving you was abnormal. "Hahaha! Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!" I gave him a thumbs-up. Jason had never seen me like this, so brazenly defiant. His composure shattered into rage. "What's with the sarcasm? It's come to this. I have nothing more to say. Drink it!" He pointed at the cup, delivering his final ultimatum. Damian, emboldened, echoed him. "Just drink it! Drink it, and I'll still acknowledge you as my mother. If you don't, we're done!" Well, that sounded fantastic. And you know what? I was suddenly a little thirsty. "Down the hatch, then." I let out one last, derisive chuckle and raised the cup. I had no more questions. I had no more love. It was time. Father and son tensed, their eyes wide, fixed on me, burning with a desperate, hopeful light. I would not disappoint them. I drank it all in one go. Let this water tear my heart to shreds. I… am finally letting you go.
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