What We Must Bear

Sarah stood at the bathroom sink, the amber prescription bottle clicking rhythmically against the ceramic countertop. Another day, another handful of supplements that promised to fix what her forty-three-year-old body refused to heal. The **vitamin** D was for bone density, the B-complex for energy she never seemed to have, the magnesium for sleep that wouldn't come. Each pill felt like a tiny admission of defeat.

Downstairs, Mark was already on his second cup of coffee, his laptop open to spreadsheets she'd stopped trying to understand years ago. They'd developed a silent choreography — she'd ask about his day, he'd offer a practiced summary, she'd nod, he'd pretend not to notice her retreat into her own mind.

"How was the appointment?" he asked without looking up.

"The usual. They want more tests."

"What kind of tests?"

"Just... tests." She turned away, not wanting to see the calculation in his eyes — the one that measured how much more medical debt they could **bear**, how many more appointments he could miss work for, how long he could keep being the supportive husband before the resentment calcified.

Her phone chimed — a notification from the poetry group she'd joined on impulse, then barely attended. Tonight's prompt: write about something unsolvable. A **sphinx** without a riddle, a monster that just existed, demanding nothing and everything.

She thought about her mother's phone call yesterday. "Have you tried yoga? My friend's daughter cured her fatigue with that new diet." The well-meaning suggestions always arrived like indictments. If Sarah just tried harder, ate better, thought positively, maybe her body wouldn't feel like a foreign territory she was forced to occupy.

That night, as Mark's breathing slowed beside her, Sarah found herself whispering into the darkness, confessing fears she'd never dared voice aloud. Not the medical things — those were manageable, had names and treatment plans. The other things. The way she'd been hollowing out for years. The way she didn't know who she was anymore beyond a collection of symptoms and coping mechanisms.

Mark's hand found hers in the dark. His thumb traced circles on her palm, the way he used to when they were young enough to believe love could solve anything.

"We'll figure it out," he said, and she heard something like hope in his voice — not the naive hope of their twenties, but something weathered, patient. Something that could bear the weight of everything they couldn't fix.

The **sphinx** remained, riddle-less and immense. But in the dark, their fingers intertwined, Sarah thought perhaps that was enough.