What the Lightning Bore

I spy on my husband through the crack in the bathroom door—that's what betrayal does to you. It makes you petty. Tom's brushing his teeth, methodical as always, while I sit on the edge of the tub wondering when I became this person. Not the spy part, though that's new. The zombie part.

Three years of fertility treatments will do that to you. The hormones, the waiting rooms, the way doctors look at you with professional pity. I move through our life half-dead, showing up to work, making dinner, having sex on schedule. My body functions. My heart barely does.

Lightning splits the sky outside, sudden and violent. The bathroom floods with white light, and for a second I see Tom's face in the mirror—exhausted, hollowed out, carrying the weight of my disappointment like a physical thing he has to bear.

I know about the other woman. I found the receipts, saw the messages on his laptop when he forgot to lock it. I should be screaming, throwing things, demanding answers. But I don't feel anything except this terrible numbness, this walking-through-molasses feeling that's become my default state.

Another lightning strike, closer this time. Thunder rattles the medicine cabinet.

"You okay in there?" Tom calls through the door.

I consider lying. Consider confronting him. Consider packing a bag and walking out into the storm.

Instead I slide the door open. He turns, toothbrush in hand, and really looks at me for the first time in months. Really sees me—the zombie his wife has become, the spy watching from the shadows.

"I can't bear this anymore," I say, and my voice sounds like someone else's. "Not the baby stuff. Not us."

The lightning flashes again, illuminating everything we've become, everything we've lost. Tom spits into the sink. He doesn't look away.

"I know," he says. "I met someone."

And somehow, in that terrible confession, I feel something finally break open inside me—something alive, something wounded but finally, finally awake.