He pouts like a child. “Come on! We can make it like an Easter egg hunt. You can hide them around the house, and I can find them!”
“Timmy…”
“It’ll be so cute!” he insists, grabbing my arm. His tone shifts to a soft plea, his eyes wide and sincere. “Babe, Ipromiseit’ll just be for fun. We’re having such a great day, and I wouldn’t ruin that. I’ll just have fun finding them and only drink a couple.”
His enthusiasm is infectious, and his promises, as usual, sound so genuine. He’s so persuasive with the way he says things.
Part of me is curious, too—can he live up to his word?
And if he doesn’t, will that give me the final push I need to get out of this?
Is this a way of saving myself?
Against my better judgment, but with a hint of curiosity, I relent.
“Okay, I’ll get you the Fireball bucket. But you have to stick to your word. I’m serious.”
“I promise,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “Thank you so much!”
As he grabs the bucket, my stomach flips.
I hope I’m not making a huge mistake.
“Yay! Fireball Easter egg hunt for Timmy!”he squeals with delight.
Well, I guess we’ll see what happens.
Timmy might be digging his own grave.
Hopefully not mine, too.
LATER IN THE DAY
Back at home, I hide the little Fireball bottles all around the apartment.
I get creative—placing them in drawers, on top of the fridge, inside the Baby Shark toy with the ripped-open butt, and even under the bed.
Timmy scours the apartment high and low for the Fireball, his giddy laughter echoing through the rooms.“Yesss!Found another! I’m so good at this!”
I shake my head, half-amused, half-concerned. I’ve never seen him work this hard at anything. It would be impressive if it weren’t so sad.
He cracks one open and downs it in one gulp.
“Careful,” I caution. “Remember your promise not to drink them all at once.”
“Oh, I know! Don’t worry,” he says with a grin. “I’ll behave myself.”
About an hour later, Timmy is visibly drunk, the now all-too-familiar cruel gleam in his eyes.
He leaves for a while, and comes back another hour later, and heads to the back room.
“I’m going to tell the secret!” he announces gleefully, his face twisted with mischief. Before I can stop him, he grabs his phone and retreats to the back room.
My heart sinks into my stomach.
What secret?
Moments later, I hear him screaming into the phone. “Mom, they were laughing about putting you in a nursing home! Janet and Margaux—they think you’re crazy!”