The Wellness Plan

Margot discovered the affair through the cat. Specifically, through Tango's Instagram account—which her husband had apparently been posting to for months. A photo of Tango curled on a stranger's couch, captioned: "Our little love bunny."

She was thirty-seven, suddenly single, and alone in an apartment that felt like a museum of someone else's choices. Tango purred around her ankles, oblivious to his role as marital catalyst. Margot poured cat food into his bowl, then opened the refrigerator to assess her own dinner prospects.

Spinach. A lot of it. She'd bought spinach on Tuesday, in what she now recognized as a subconscious bid for control. If she couldn't save her marriage, at least she could optimize her micronutrients. She stood at the kitchen counter eating raw spinach leaves while Tango wound through her legs like a furry, contented espresso machine.

Her iPhone buzzed. A notification from the meditation app she'd downloaded that morning. "Remember: wellness is a journey." She'd also purchased a $75 vitamin pack—customized, supposedly, for "women navigating major life transitions." The container featured a woman silhouetted against a sunset, looking aspirationally toward a future where her husband hadn't left her for someone who let the cat sleep on the couch.

"This is fine," she told Tango. He blinked and licked his paw.

She took the vitamins. All twelve of them, with a glass of water that tasted faintly of her own绝望. That wasn't true. It tasted like water. She was being dramatic. She was allowed to be dramatic. She had spinach, vitamins, a cat, and a phone that kept reminding her to breathe.

At 2 AM, she found herself Googling "can cats sense divorce." Tango slept on her pillow, kneading her hair with rhythmic precision. Her iPhone illuminated her face in the darkness as she scrolled through photos of him and the other woman—the one who'd posted about Tango being their love bunny. The woman looked like someone who ate spinach voluntarily. Margot hated her immediately.

By Thursday, she'd established a routine. Wake, take vitamins, eat spinach while Tango watched judgmentally from the counter. Scroll the iPhone for evidence that her life had meaning. Repeat. She was the picture of modern wellness. She was emotionally fortified. She was completely falling apart.

Then her phone buzzed. Not an app. A text.

"I'm so sorry," it read. "I've been thinking about you."

From her college roommate. The one she hadn't spoken to in six years. The one whose husband had also left her last month. They'd been widows of living marriages, both too proud to reach out until the cat broke them first.

Margot looked at Tango. He looked back, then sneezed.

"Well," she said. "At least one of us is getting laid."

She texted back. They made plans for drinks. She didn't take her vitamins that morning. She ordered pizza. Tango batted at a pepperoni that fell on the floor. For the first time in weeks, Margot laughed—really laughed—until the cat stared at her like she'd lost her mind.

Maybe she had. Maybe that was okay.