“Regarding the pills, I only drugged the kids a few times, and I always did it safely. I’d never endanger them. The medication won’t have lasting damage anyway.” She shivers and leans toward me, and I reflexively inch away. “At first I loved spending time with them. They’re such great children, so insightful and creative. But eventually it became difficult for me to be with them all the time. They were so rambunctious, so loud. Kids these days are all getting diagnosed with ADHD and such, and I think there’s a reason for it. Neither of them could sit still.” I hear the groan of a radiator, the sharp hiss of heat beginning to churn.

“Don’t even try justifying that to me, Anneliese. You stifled them. You actively harmed them. You don’t deserve sympathy.” And you made me feel guilty. You made me feel sad and scared, I almost add. This is getting tiresome, and I really would like to get going, leave Anneliese to her own tea drinking and trespassing.

“I know it sounds horrible. But I was coming out of a deep depression, and I didn’t know how to navigate that. I wasn’t sleeping. It was the only way I could keep sane. Surely you’d understand that.” She raises her eyes from the mug and looks at me imploringly. “It’s not like the children even noticed. It was good for them, I’d even say. They napped so much deeper.”

At this, I can’t help but roll my eyes. “I’m going to go call a cab. Then I’m going to get out of here, and we can pretend this never happened, okay?” But she looks so shrunken and lonely, the mug dwarfing her hand, her eyes so large, plaintive and hopeful, that I soften my tone.

“You need help, Anneliese. Serious help. And I’m not trying to patronize you by saying that either. I’m in therapy now, too! It’s really helpful, and you can Google sliding-scale-pay doctors if you’re still between jobs. I promise you it’s worth it, and then maybe I’d be willing to sit down with you again and have a proper chat.”

And then suddenly, something in her seems to flicker off, flatten, the light in her receding like I’ve ruptured a barely healed wound. She gets up from the chair and moves to the edge of the bed, places the mug on the nightstand, and puts her head in her hands. “I can’t do this anymore. You’re right, Sue. You’re absolutely right.” Her voice is a whisper, so hushed that I move closer. She looks at a spot on the nightstand as she talks, and it’s like a dam has fractured.