The Riddle of What Remains

Maya lay beside him in bed, his breathing rhythmic and unmistakably alive, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something essential had already died between them. Six years of marriage had eroded their intimacy into this: parallel scrolling through social media feeds in the dark, the blue glow of their iPhones illuminating faces that had forgotten how to look at each other.

"Did you hear me?" David asked, not looking up from his screen.

"What?" Maya had stopped listening months ago — that zombie state of doing time beside someone while emotionally already gone.

"I said, my mother invited us for Christmas."

The familiar weight settled in her chest. His mother, that ancient creature who regarded Maya with eyes of a sphinx — inscrutable, judging, demanding answers to riddles Maya never knew she was being asked. *What are your intentions? What do you bring to this family? What makes you worthy?* The woman never spoke these questions aloud, but they hung in every silence, every lifted eyebrow, every prolonged handshake.

"I can't go," Maya said, the words slipping out before she could armor them in politeness.

David finally looked at her. "What?"

She sat up, the sudden movement causing her iPhone to slide onto the floor. "I can't keep doing this. Showing up. Pretending. Being interrogated by your mother's sphinx act while you pretend not to notice how much she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you. She's just —"

"She's been asking me when we're having children for five years, David. The subtext isn't subtle."

He was silent for a long moment. Then: "I thought we were waiting until your promotion came through."

"I didn't get it."

He set down his phone. In the dim light, his expression was unreadable. "You told me you'd find out this week."

"I found out yesterday."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Maya laughed, and there was something zombie-like in the sound — hollow, automatic. "I don't know, David. Maybe I'm tired of being the only one who asks anything around here."

He stared at her, and for the first time in years, she couldn't predict what he would say. The sphinx had turned its gaze on her at last.

"Ask me," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Ask me anything."

Her iPhone buzzed on the floor — a work notification, a reminder, something that once would have seemed urgent. Maya ignored it.

"Do you still love me?" The question felt like a surrender, like walking into an ancient temple unarmed.

David's answer didn't come quickly. When it finally did, it wasn't what she expected.

"I don't know," he said. "But I want to figure it out."

The riddle, Maya realized, was not what remained between them. The riddle was whether either of them had the courage to find out.