In my fifth year working at the remote space tracking station in the northwest desert, I finally completed my mission and could go home.
The moment I got the news, I called Julian Harding, my voice trembling with excitement.
"Julian, the mission wrapped up perfectly! I might be coming home soon. Are you happy? Surprised?"
Two seconds of silence on the other end.
Maybe it was the signal, but his voice came through choppy and broken.
"Mavis, why so sudden? You're not going to stay a little longer?"
"The country's work comes first. Don't worry about me. Just focus on your job. No matter how long it takes, I'll wait for you."
My heart softened. I was about to tell him that this time it was real, that I was actually coming back.
But the signal cut out, and the call dropped.
Once I made it back to the city, I retrieved the personal phone that had been locked away for five years. I was going to message Julian and explain everything.
But the second my finger swiped the screen, a viral post on the trending topics stopped me cold.
The account was called "Mavis's Julian." The profile picture was our wedding photo.
The caption read:
My beloved wife, Mavis Henson, passed away last month in a mission-related accident.
She devoted her entire life to the aerospace career she loved. She was my hero, and the love of my life.
I will raise our child and live well for both of us, seeing all the beauty of this world on her behalf.
——
Three photos were attached.
The first was my official ID photo in my work uniform. I'd left it with him before I deployed. I'd almost forgotten what I looked like in it.
The second showed him holding a little boy on the couch of the riverfront apartment I'd bought outright with my own money. The boy looked about four, with crescent-moon eyes when he smiled and tiny dimples bracketing his mouth.
Something about him felt inexplicably familiar.
The third was a birth certificate.
Under "Mother," written in black and white, was my name: Mavis Henson.
Every drop of blood in my body went ice-cold, draining from my head to the soles of my feet.
My phone hit the floor with a sharp crack.
I was dead?
Yesterday I'd been on the phone with him. Today I was the woman who'd tragically passed in his viral post?
And there was a child?
Julian and I had been married six years. I'd spent five of those in the desert. Forget having a baby. I hadn't even spent a full month with him at a stretch.
Where did a four-year-old come from?
I picked up the phone. My fingertips shook so badly I couldn't even type in my passcode.
It took three tries to unlock it.
I tapped into the account's profile.
Tens of thousands of followers. Every single one gained off the persona of "devoted husband of an aerospace hero."
I scrolled back through his posts. All of them dripping with the performance of a grieving, loving man.
"Took Mavis's little one to get his shots today. He was so brave, didn't cry at all. If Mavis were here, she'd be so proud."
The photo showed him holding the boy's hand. Behind them was the most exclusive private children's hospital in the city.
"Mavis's favorite spot was always the balcony. I planted it full of the roses she loved. They bloomed this year. She never got to see them."
The photo was of the riverfront apartment. The one I'd bought him with every cent of five years' worth of bonuses.
"Celebrated Mavis's mom's birthday on her behalf. Her mother is doing well, everyone. Don't worry. I'll take care of her for as long as she lives."
The photo showed him with my mother, her face warm and smiling.
But I'd called my mom just days ago. She told me Julian hadn't visited once in the past six months.
I scrolled through post after post.
Each one was a poisoned blade, driven straight into my chest.
Now I finally understood.
Why every time I mentioned coming home, he found some excuse to talk me into waiting.
Why every time I called, he barely said two sentences before rushing off the line, claiming he was busy.
He wasn't busy with work. He wasn't busy taking care of the family.
