She stood stirring the pot; this was her final solution.
It had been a rollercoaster of a day. First there was the big rush to get him to the airport. His usual bad temper, as though she was to blame for him running late. She had driven him there as quickly and as safely as possible. Naturally, he had rushed off without a thank you.
Then there was the item all over the radio on the way home and the television news coverage about his plane coming down not long after take-off. There were no survivors.
She had sat, staring at the screen, sobbing. No more sudden anger. No more slaps followed by profuse apologies. She had curled up on the sofa and let the tears of relief fall.
Then, there was his phone call from the airport.
He had missed his flight and was heading for a taxi. There was the same old anger in his voice.
She returned the small blue bottle to the garden shed then came back and laid the table.
He’d be so pleased; homemade Mulligatawny soup, his favourite.
She looked at the clock and went back to stirring the pot.