What the Cat Knows

The hair kept clogging the shower drain—long, dark strands that weren't mine. I'd gather them each morning, wet and accusing, before Marcus could see. Three weeks of evidence I couldn't bring myself to confront.

My cat, a sphinx of a creature named Mystery, watched from the bathroom counter. She'd been with me through the miscarriage, the promotion, the decade of marriage. Her silence felt less like ignorance and more like mercy.

"You notice everything, don't you?" I asked her. She blinked, slow and deliberate.

That evening, my friend Elena came over with wine and gossip. She worked with Marcus. I waited for her to slip, to reveal what she surely knew.

"Your hair looks amazing," she said, touching my shoulder. "So thick and healthy."

I swallowed. "Thanks."

"Marcus mentioned someone at work has been having an affair," she continued, pouring more wine. "Can you imagine? Some people have no loyalty."

Mystery jumped onto the table between us, staring at Elena with those unblinking eyes.

"Creepy cat," Elena said.

"She's just honest." I pulled the bottle of prenatal vitamins from my purse—the ones I still took, even though there was no baby anymore. Even though there might never be one. "You want one? They're supposed to help with stress."

Elena laughed. "You're so weird. But sure, why not."

She swallowed the vitamin without water. Mystery hissed.

"What's her problem?"

"She knows," I said. "Cats always know."

Elena's smile faltered. A moment stretched between us, heavy with everything unsaid. The hair in the drain. The vitamins. The loyalty she preached while watching me live a lie.

"Knows what?" she asked, but her voice had changed.

I stood up. "I think you should go."

The next morning, I filed for divorce. The shower drain was clear for the first time in a month. Mystery purred against my legs as I packed, and for the first time in years, I could breathe without something caught in my throat.