The first time my husband handed me a cup of red tea, I thought it was sweet.
A quiet act of love.
His way of saying goodnight without words.
I never imagined that one small cup would lead me into the darkest truth of my marriage.
At first, nothing seemed strange. Every night, he would walk into the bedroom with the same warm cup, faint steam rising, ruby-colored liquid shimmering under the lamp.
“Drink this, love,” he would say softly, smiling as if the world was gentle.
And every night, I drank it.
It tasted like almost nothing—barely sweet, barely bitter. Simply… red.
But then little things started to bother me.
Before he made the tea, he would always step outside.
Not to smoke. Not to take out the trash.
Just… outside.
He would return a few minutes later, go straight to the kitchen, and then appear at the doorway with that same cup—never a different one.
And the strangest part?
I never once saw him drink it himself.
One evening, I asked, “Why don’t you ever make a cup for yourself?”
He smiled too quickly.
“I already had mine earlier. This one’s for you.”
He kissed my forehead so gently that it silenced the knot in my stomach.
But that night, for the first time, I didn’t want to drink it.
He noticed immediately.
His smile tightened.
“You’re not drinking?”
He teased me, joked, insisted lightly… and somehow he wore me down.
I drank it.
But now my mind was awake. Watching. Counting. Wondering.
Each night followed the same ritual:
• He stepped outside.
• He returned quietly.
• He made the tea.
• He insisted I drink it.
Finally, I decided: Tonight, I will follow him.
When he said he was “checking the car,” I slipped on my shoes and silently walked after him.
He didn’t go near the car at all.
He went behind the shed, in the darkest part of the yard.
I saw him crouch down, whisper something, then stretch his hand out as if taking something from someone.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears.
Someone was there.
Hidden in the dark.
I leaned forward… but the shadows swallowed everything.
Just as he began to stand, I ran back inside and pretended to be watching TV, heart racing.
When he came in, his hand went straight to his pocket—hiding something.
He forced a smile. “I’ll join you soon.”
Minutes later, he reappeared with the cup.
The red tea.
“Here you go, sweetheart. Your tea that keeps you glowing.”
This time, I didn’t reach for it.
I said, “Drink it first.”
The way his eyes widened—just slightly—told me everything.
He laughed nervously.
“It’s for you. Come on.”
“No,” I said. “Drink it.”
He froze.
Then the tea shifted—right there in his hand.
The color deepened, darkened… thickened.
Like something that should not be called tea.
His hands trembled.
He looked toward the window, as if something outside was calling him.
“Please…” he whispered. “Just drink it. Just this once.”
His voice cracked like he was begging for his life.
I stood firm.
“No. If it’s safe, then you drink it.”
His entire face changed.
The gentle man I knew vanished.
He exploded.
“You must drink it!” he shouted. “Do not test me!”
I stepped back, stunned.
“So now it’s an order?”
“Yes!” he barked. “Drink it and stop wasting my time!”
Then he said the words that sliced into me like knives:
“Leave? Where will you go? You have no family. No home. I saved you. I made you.”
My hands shook. Tears stung my eyes.
“Yes,” I whispered, “I’m an orphan. But God never left me. And I won’t drink anything I don’t trust.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Soft. Slow. Deliberate.
He went pale.
The cup trembled in his hand, spilling thick, red drops onto the floor.
Another knock.
He panicked. “Don’t open it!”
But I was done listening to him.
I opened the door.
Standing on the porch was an old woman—thin, pale, with long silver hair and bright, strange eyes.
She looked at me with sorrow… then past me at my husband, who collapsed to his knees.
The woman raised a trembling hand.
In her palm lay a small empty pouch, stained dark red.
Her voice was quiet, almost echoing.
“Child… you must stop drinking what was never meant for you.”
My skin crawled.
My voice cracked. “What is this? Who are you?”
She didn’t answer.
She looked at my husband instead—who shook like a terrified child.
“I paid you,” he gasped. “I followed every instruction!”
The woman closed her eyes, sad and stern.
“I told you… the blood tea cannot force love. It was only meant to return what was stolen.”
Blood.
Tea.
Return what was stolen.
The room tilted around me.
“You have drunk enough,” she whispered to me.
“Any more… and your soul would not come back.”
I staggered backward, dizzy with horror.
My husband crawled toward her.
“Please… just one more month! She’ll stay with me forever if she drinks just a little more—”
Her eyes turned cold as stone.
“That is not love. That is possession.”
She placed one finger on his forehead.
He screamed—louder than anything I had heard in my life—and collapsed in a heap, unconscious.
Then she turned to me.
“Leave this house tonight. Do not look back.”
And with that, she walked into the darkness until she faded like smoke.
My husband remained on the floor, breathing shallowly, the cup spilled beside him—thick, black-red liquid pooling like something alive.
I grabbed my keys.
My legs shook beneath me, but I forced myself out the door.
I didn’t pack.
I didn’t speak.
I didn’t look back.
To this day, whenever I smell something warm and faintly sweet at midnight…
my stomach turns.
Because now I know:
Love should never taste like fear.
And no marriage needs a tea mixed by a stranger in the dark.