What the Sphinx Knows

Ellen found the bottle of prenatal vitamins in the medicine cabinet, six years expired. She held it up to the fluorescent light, the pills inside rattling like dried bones. The divorce was final last week, and she was forty-two, suddenly single in a world that seemed designed for pairs.

Her therapist suggested a trip—anywhere, just go. So she'd come to Egypt, where the heat pressed against her skin like a unwanted memory. At the Sphinx, she watched tourists pose with their arms around the limestone creature, grinning at monuments that had witnessed civilizations rise and crumble.

"The ancients believed the Sphinx guarded knowledge," a guide told his group, his voice carrying over the wind. "But perhaps it only asks us the right questions."

Ellen's question: Was she supposed to start over now? At this age, with these miles on her?

She washed her face in the hotel sink that night, the water cooler than she expected, shocking her awake. Through the window, she saw a silhouette moving across the courtyard—a street dog, ribs showing, nosing through rubbish. It reminded her of the fox she'd seen in their backyard in Vermont the morning after Mark moved out, its ginger coat bright against the snow, wild and unburdened.

The dog looked up at her window, eyes reflecting moonlight.

"You're free, though," she whispered.

She thought about the vitamins again, how she'd bought them during those three months they tried, how hope had tasted coppery and sharp, like the supplements she swallowed each morning with water from the tap.

The Sphinx had asked the traveler: What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in evening? The answer was man, but Ellen understood it differently now. We begin dependent, grow independent, end dependent again. The circle closed whether we wanted it to or not.

She dressed and went down to the courtyard. The dog watched her approach, wary but curious. She had nothing in her pockets—no treats, no leash, no expectations. Just herself, standing under Egyptian stars.

"I don't know what I'm doing either," she said.

The dog's tail gave a tentative thump against the dusty ground.

In the morning, she'd book a ticket home. Or maybe she wouldn't. The Sphinx offered no answers, only the question that had been hers all along: What happens next? And this time, for the first time in years, the answer belonged only to her.