Dear Diary

Dear Diary I'm writing into you because you never judge me or talk back. It’s 2 a.m. on May 24, 2021. I'm still awake, sitting in my bed, staring out the window and finishing the final glass of wine. In less than an hour, I drank two bottles.

Just think about it. We have history. We have been together for 50 years. My mother, on my tenth birthday, gave you to me because she said every woman should have a diary. Her mother gave her a diary too, to keep her thoughts.

And now I'm 60 years old. Somewhat wrinkled and you are too. Over the many years, I managed to keep all of the delicate pages together. You've been there for me through all of my highs and lows.

I have the perfect life with my daughter, Macy, who graduated from college with a bachelor's degree in psychology. We've had a few bumps in the road, but we've made it through. Then there's Frank Adams, my husband, who is attractive and has the most magnificent teeth I've ever seen.

Our anniversary is today. For the past 30 years, we have been together. We got married right after college. My husband went on to become a great lawyer, and I planned to follow in his footsteps as a successful doctor, but then came the pregnancy.

So we decided that I would stay at home because my first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage and the baby was a boy. Frank was heartbroken. He seemed to be blaming me. As a result, I made it my mission to make him happy. I did everything I could to witness his beautiful grin and pearly white teeth. Macy arrived a year later. And now, many years later, I'm sitting alone on our bed, staring out the window, wondering when Frank would arrive.

Being Mrs. Rhonda Adams used to make me very proud. He used to take me to luncheons, dinners, and out-of-town outings, basically prancing me around. I felt attractive, needed, and loved, but now I feel worthless.

This isn’t the first time he hasn’t come home for our anniversary. And when he does come home, he looks at me as a burden. I'll then suggest to Frank that we need to go to counseling, and he’ll tell me there's nothing wrong.

Then afterwards, I'll usually call my daughter and cry to her, and she'll tell me I’m overreacting. And I should probably seek help. Only on Wednesdays and Sundays does Frank return home. I make his favorite meal, beef potato casserole, which I learnt from his great aunt before she died; it's a family recipe that I made sure I mastered. Then, on a regular basis, I make tea.

So, diary, am I doing something wrong or am I simply insecure because my husband doesn't come home five days a week? Shelly, one of my girlfriends, says I should be grateful because her husband, Bill, passed away three years ago.

So last Sunday, I invited my daughter and Shelly to dinner with me and Frank. I made his favorite, a beef potato casserole. We were having such a good time. But then I noticed how Frank kept staring at Shelly. It was awkward. Something was off. Once everybody had finished with their casserole, I took an apple pie out of the oven, but in the corner of my eyes, I saw Shelly staring with a frown.

So then Frank asked for another cup of tea. So I asked Frank how many spoons of sugar he would like. He said nothing, so I just assumed and gave him four tablespoons. Shelly wanted a cup of tea, too, but I heard deception in Shelly's voice. So I smiled and gave her 15 table teaspoons of sugar in her tea.

Minutes later, Shelly and Frank were dripping with sweat, as if they had just stepped out of a hot sauna.

"Is everything all right?" Macy stated.

My daughter Macy was generally concerned about people, while I was enthused by watching them.

"She's diabetic," I smiled as I said it.

Frank gave me a concerned expression. Shelly's entire body grew numb, and she suddenly collapsed to the ground. Macy, hysterical, called for help. Eventually, the ambulance came, but by then Shelly had passed away. Macy gave me a strange look because I was overjoyed.

You see, I hired a private investigator, and I confided in Macy. I told her it could help me with my paranoia, and the private investigator reassured me because he had proof that Shelly, my best friend, was Frank's mistress. He showed me pictures and videos. I never told Macy that the mistress woman was Shelly.

I became a scorned woman. You see, I poisoned Frank and Shelly with arsenic oxide. It’s a white, dry substance that has no taste or smell and looks like sugar. So never drink an angry woman's sweet tea. It's 10 a.m. now, and Macy is pulling up with her father, Frank. He just got out of the hospital. That’s why he couldn’t make it to our anniversary this time.

Dear Diary thanks for not judging me.