As soon as we got home, Mark headed straight to the attic. Walter’s boxes had sat untouched since his death. I followed him up the creaking ladder as dust swirled through the air. One by one, Mark pulled out containers labeled carefully in Walter’s tidy handwriting.
After nearly thirty minutes of searching, he opened a shoebox—and froze.
Inside were five more prescription bottles. Every single one was in Linda’s name. All had been filled in the months before her stroke. None matched anything Dr. Simmons had ever prescribed. Some were unopened. Others partially used. And every bottle carried warnings about interactions or serious side effects.
My chest tightened as I picked one up. “Mark… why would he have these? Why keep them hidden?”
Mark sank back onto an old trunk, rubbing his temples. “Maybe he thought he was helping. Maybe he saw symptoms and tried to treat her himself. Or maybe he panicked and didn’t want to worry anyone.”
“But hiding them in the attic?” I whispered. “Never telling a doctor?”
His voice shook. “We can’t know why. All we know is—they were here.”
That evening, after tucking Sophie into bed, we sat with Linda again. Mark held one of the bottles gently, almost reverently.
“Mom,” he said softly, “did Dad ever give you any of these?”
She studied the bottle, then shook her head. “No… I’ve never seen those.”
“Do you remember feeling different before the stroke? Dizzy? Confused? Numb?” Mark asked carefully.
Linda’s expression shifted. She nodded slowly. “Yes. I told him something wasn’t right. He said it was probably stress and made me tea. He never mentioned new medication.”
Her voice trembled—not out of fear, but from the pain of realizing the man she’d trusted completely might have made a terrible, silent mistake.
I placed my hand over hers. “We’re not accusing him of anything. We just need to understand what happened.”
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
