The Taste of Wormwood

My son, pay attention to my wisdom, turn your ear to my words of insight, that you may maintain discretion and your lips may preserve knowledge. For the lips of the adulterous woman drip honey, and her speech is smoother than oil; but in the end she is bitter as gall, sharp as a double-edged sword … You will say, “How I hated discipline! How my heart spurned correction! I would not obey my teachers or turn my ear to my instructors. And I was soon in serious trouble in the assembly of God’s people.” 5:1-4, 12-14

My name is Fernando, and this is the autopsy of a life. I groan now, at the end, not from physical pain, but from something deeper. It is the sound of a soul consumed from within. My flesh and my body are spent, not by a disease, but by a choice. A choice that began with the taste of honey and ended with the bitter taste of wormwood.

It all started at a happy hour, six months ago. Life had grown lukewarm. My marriage to Paula, good and stable, had become predictable. My job, secure, but without passion. And then, Rebeca appeared, the new analyst on my team. She laughed at all my jokes. Her lips, as the book I used to read says, dripped honey.

“You’re so underrated here, Fernando,” she told me that night, her voice smoother than oil. “They don’t see your brilliance.”

Her words were a balm to my dormant ego. Paula loved me, I knew, but she knew my flaws, my insecurities. Rebeca saw only the brilliance she herself had invented.

The flirting became a secret lunch. The lunch became a late afternoon coffee. Each step seemed small, harmless. I told myself it was just friendship, that I was in control. I ignored the wisdom my father had taught me, the instruction that echoed from a distant past. I turned away from understanding.

Her path was unstable, and I did not know it. She lived in a world of intense emotions and instant gratification. And I, a fool, dived in headfirst. The first time I was physically unfaithful, I felt a wave of guilt, but also a wave of power. I had crossed a line and nothing terrible had happened.

But her end, as the proverb says, is as bitter as wormwood. The initial sweetness began to turn sour. The flirting became demands. The admiration became jealousy. The excitement became anxiety. I lived with my phone on silent mode, my heart racing with every notification. My feet were going down to death—the death of my peace, of my integrity. Every step of mine took hold of the grave of deceit.

The sharp, double-edged sword cut in every direction. It cut my relationship with Paula. She began to sense my distance.

“You’re distant, Nando. What happened?” she would ask, and every question was torture. It cut my finances, with the expensive gifts and secret dinners to keep Rebeca satisfied. It cut my performance at work, my mind always divided, exhausted.

And, in the end, the sword turned against me. Paula found out. Not with a dramatic scene from a soap opera, but with a silent sadness that was a thousand times worse. She found the messages. The castle of lies I had built collapsed on top of me.

Now, I am here, in this rented apartment that smells of loneliness. The divorce took half of my assets. The promotion I had coveted went to someone else, as my “brilliance” had faded. Rebeca? She blamed me for the disaster and disappeared, probably in search of another “brilliant man” to charm.

I hate discipline, and my soul despises reproof. I ask myself, “How did I get to this point?” And the answer is simple and terrible. I arrived here because, for a moment of sweetness, I sold all my honor.

And the taste that remains in the mouth, in the end, is not that of honey. It is the bitter taste of regret. The taste of wormwood.

(Made with AI)

This story is part of my book Everyday Wisdom

https://books2read.com/u/3knogL