Lethean Elixir

My husband, Mark, was a pharmaceutical giant. The day he perfected the "Lethean Elixir," a drug designed to erase deep-seated emotions, our son, Ethan, finally cracked a smile. “Can we give this to Mom?” he asked, “So she won’t love us anymore?”

Mark nodded resolutely. Ethan brought the elixir to me, a syrupy green concoction, and with a practiced lie, convinced me to drink it. I gave a bitter laugh and downed it in one gulp. Father and son exchanged relieved glances. They were finally free to be with her.

But why, then, did they weep and wail later, "Don't you love us at all anymore?"

1

When Ethan brought me the murky green liquid, I knew what was coming. I didn't take the glass, just stared at him, a silent, heavy gaze I’d never leveled at him before. Fifteen years, gone. I knew exactly what that drink was: Lethean Elixir, Mark’s company's latest breakthrough. A simple name for a complex drug: it severed your strongest emotional attachments. And I loved Mark. I loved Ethan. Fiercely.

A psychic once told me I had a sensitive soul, prone to being consumed by emotions. She was right. I'd been with Mark for eighteen years, from his days tinkering in our basement to his corner office in the pharmaceutical tower. We had Ethan, and for fifteen years, I’d nurtured him from a helpless infant into a brilliant, if aloof, teenager. They were my world. My love for them was visceral, instinctive.

But when Ethan was eight, Mark’s “first love,” Amelia, reappeared. Long dark hair, flowing white dress, a captivating smile. “Hey, Marky,” she’d said with a playful wave, “You’re not as cute as you used to be.” Mark, successful and powerful, melted like butter. He’d claimed to despise Amelia for choosing a life abroad over him, yet here he was, captivated. It was me who’d pulled him back from the brink of despair all those years ago, who’d helped him build his empire from scratch.

Ethan, always reserved and analytical like his father, was equally smitten. When Amelia ruffled his hair, he’d blushed, stammering out a shy, “Hi, Amelia.” Just like that, they became a tight-knit trio, and I, the outsider. My protests, my tears, my desperate pleas were met with a dismissive, “Don't be so dramatic. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Amelia, sensing the turmoil, left a note for Mark, saying she was returning the family to me. Then she vanished. Her departure didn’t fix anything. Mark clutched the note, eyes blazing, blaming me for driving her away. Ethan, his face contorted with rage, hurled his backpack at me, vowing never to call me “Mom” again.

The life drained out of our home. Mark moved into his office, refusing to share my bed. Ethan, for seven long years, barely acknowledged my existence. And now, he was offering me tea. Eagerly awaiting my compliance.

2

The green liquid swirled in the glass. Ethan’s hands trembled slightly; at fifteen, the charade was clearly a strain. “What kind of tea is this?” I asked, even though I knew. A flicker of hope, perhaps, a pathetic sliver...