The Collection

Margaret stood before the hall mirror, adjusting the wig she'd purchased yesterday. The synthetic hair fell in stiff, unnatural waves around her shoulders—a poor imitation of the chestnut cascade she'd had at forty. At sixty-seven, she'd stopped caring what people thought, except on nights like tonight.

The charity gala. Richard's foundation.

On the entry table, Barnaby—a fat orange tabby with half an ear—watched her with golden eyes. He'd been Richard's cat, technically, though Margaret had been the one to feed him, clean his litter, listen to his midnight yowling for seven years. After the funeral, when the lawyer asked if there was anything she wanted from the house, she'd said only the cat.

She reached for the hatbox on the shelf. Inside lay Richard's favorite fedora, the one he'd worn to their anniversary dinner, the night he'd told her about the leukemia. He'd made her promise that day: don't let people see you fall apart. Keep your chin up. You have a reputation.

That reputation now felt like another costume.

Barnaby wound around her ankles, purring. Margaret picked him up, burying her face in his fur. He still smelled like Richard's study—old books and expensive cologne. She'd tried buying new perfume, fresh linens, even a different cat food, but some scents refused to be washed away.

Some memories refused to be washed away.

She set Barnaby down and placed the fedora on her head. The mirror reflected a stranger: a woman in synthetic hair and a dead man's hat, playing the part of the composed widow. The foundation had raised three million for cancer research last quarter. Richard would have been proud. Everyone said she should be proud.

Instead, she felt hollowed out, a house with all the furniture still inside but no one home.

The car would arrive in ten minutes. She removed the wig, letting her own thin gray hair show. Then the hat. Then the expensive earrings Richard had given her for their thirtieth anniversary, the year he stopped remembering things.

Naked in the bathroom mirror, Margaret finally looked like herself.

"They can keep their money," she whispered to Barnaby, who had curled up on the bathmat. "I'm staying in."

The cat closed his eyes, already dreaming, and Margaret finally began to breathe.