I Forgot to Mention the Hidden Camera. By Morning, the Police Were Calling My Husband About His Mother.

Sticky amber streaks of honey and syrup trickling down shelves in viscous trails. White cleaning towels bunched on the floor, stiff with dried bleach and the residue of contamination. Jars—my jars, the ones I’d spent whole weekends sterilizing and filling—smashed, their labels half-dissolved under corrosive fumes.

The peaches I’d sliced so carefully continue reading …