Gerald's POV
The cold milk splashing against her bare feet shocked me back to reality.
When I stepped inside, the first thing I saw was her, Erica, frozen in place, eyes wide, milk dripping over the edge of the counter and down to the floor. The puddle spread quickly, flowing toward her bare feet.
She gasped, stumbling backward. "Oh God."
For a moment, I didn't move. I just watched her, watched the way her hands trembled as she grabbed for napkins, knocking over the sugar container in the process. White cubes and granules scattered across the countertop like frost.
"I'm so sorry," she stammered, dropping to her knees to clean up the mess. "I wasn't paying attention, I just…."
"When did you start taking your coffee like that?", I asked.
The words came out before I could stop them. My voice sounded too calm, too deliberate.
She froze mid-motion, the crumpled napkins in her hands. Slowly, she looked up at me. "Like what?"
"With milk and sugar." I stepped closer, my shoes clicking against the floor. "You've always taken it black. For as long as I've known you."
I didn't mean it as an accusation. But something in her eyes shifted; panic, just for a moment, before she brushed it away.
"The medication," she said. She leaned back on her heels. "From the hospital. It's been affecting my taste buds. Everything tastes different now. Bitter things especially."
The medication.
I studied her, searching for something, truth, maybe. "The medication," I repeated slowly.
"Yes." She stood, wringing the napkins in her hands. "The doctors said it's temporary. A side effect from the anesthesia and the painkillers. It should go back to normal eventually."
Maybe. Maybe not.
She was rambling, trying to sound composed, but her voice cracked, something I'd never heard before. Erica didn't fidget. She didn't explain herself.
"I can make you coffee," she offered quickly. "If that's what you came for. It'll just take a second to….."
"I can make it myself ," I cut in, walking towards the coffee machine.
"Oh. Right."
She stepped aside as I passed. I could smell her perfume, light, floral, the same one she'd always worn.
I poured the coffee, and turned toward the door, then paused.
"You should be more careful," I said quietly. "The staff talk."
It wasn't a reprimand. It was a warning.
"I know," she whispered. "I will be."
I left before she could say anything else.
But as I walked away, I couldn't shake the image of her kneeling on the floor, milk pooling at her feet, eyes too bright and scared for a woman who used to command entire rooms with a single look.
That wasn't my wife.
Not the woman I'd married.
Over the next week, the house felt… different.
I started coming home earlier, though I couldn't have said why. I told myself it was to catch up on work in my study, but that wasn't the truth. The truth was, I couldn't stay away.
I wanted to understand what had changed.
One afternoon, I came home earlier than usual. James and I were discussing a client matter while entering the house, when I looked, I saw Paulette sitting down, the child in her arms.
"Mr. Roth!" she called brightly. "You're home early. Would you like to see how much Cynthia has grown?"
I turned, and saw her.
Erica was coming down the stairs. Her hair was loose, her expression soft in a way I hadn't seen in years.
I walked towards Paulette.
For one raw second, I forgot everything. My chest ached, my hand actually rose halfway before I caught myself.
Then her eyes met mine.
And just like that, reality snapped back into place.
The softness drained out of me, replaced by something tight and sharp. I dropped my hand. "I have calls to make," I said, too quickly.
I turned and walked into my study, closing the door before I could see the hurt I knew would be on her face.
I stood there for a long time, staring at nothing.
I didn't know what scared me more, that I'd wanted to reach for her… or that for a moment, I hadn't recognized her at all.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The house was silent, save for the soft hum of the central heating and the distant cry of the baby. I poured myself a glass of scotch and sat in the dark, staring at the faint reflection of my own face in the study window.
What was happening to her?
To me?
The woman upstairs wasn't the wife I'd built my life around. She smiled differently, moved differently.
I told myself trauma did that to people. Near-death experiences, surgeries, the hormone crash after childbirth.
But deep down, I knew better.
I'd lived with Erica Roth long enough to recognize every version of her, and this wasn't one of them.
Friday morning, she joined me on the dining table.
She was already dressed for the day, navy pantsuit, hair perfectly styled, that faint scent of roses she always favored. She looked composed, collected. Almost like her old self.
"Good morning," she said, her tone carefully even.
"Morning."
I pretended to read the news on my tablet, but I wasn't absorbing a single word. I watched her from the corner of my eye instead. She poured herself coffee, black, this time, and sat across from me.
Good. She remembered.
We ate in silence, the clink of cutlery and sound of my keypads were the only sounds between us. It should have been normal. It wasn't. Every moment felt… watched. Held too tightly.
Then Paulette appeared, holding Cynthia.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," she said, "but someone's fussy this morning and won't settle. I think she wants her mama."
Erica stood immediately, relief showing on her face. "Bring her here."
Paulette carried the baby over and placed her in her arms.
I told myself not to look. But I did.
She held Cynthia close, humming softly, adjusting her with practiced ease. Her voice was warm, gentle .
"She's been fed and changed," Paulette said. "I think she might just want attention."
"She's allowed to want attention," Erica said with a small smile. "Aren't you, sweet pea? You can want whatever you….."
The baby burped loudly. Erica laughed.
Not the quiet, reserved laugh I was used to. This was unguarded, bright and genuine. It filled the room, rich and alive.
I froze.
It hit me like a physical blow.
For years, I'd failed to make my wife laugh like that. And now here she was, laughing like someone else entirely.
My fork slipped from my hand and hit the plate with a sharp clang. The sound cut through her laughter like a blade.
She stopped immediately, eyes looking at mine.
Paulette cleared her throat. "I'll, um… be in the nursery if you need me." She left quickly, sensing the shift in the air.
Erica tried to recover. "She's so funny sometimes," she said softly. "Did you hear that sound she made? It was….."
"When did you start laughing like that?"
The question came out low, almost a whisper.
Her head snapped up. "Like what?"
"Like…" I struggled to find the words. "You don't laugh like that. You've never laughed like that."
Her eyes flickered, wide and uncertain.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't," I said sharply. "Your laugh has always been quiet. Controlled. You cover your mouth when you smile. You don't throw your head back and….." I gestured helplessly. "….sound like that."
The baby squirmed in her arms, whimpering.
"People change," she whispered. "I told you. Nearly dying changes…."
"If there'd anything I have learnt after my near-death experience, it's that life is too short to not do what makes me happy.", she said.
"Nearly dying doesn't change your laugh!" I snapped, rising from my chair. "It doesn't change your coffee preferences or the way you talk to the staff or any of the hundred small things that are suddenly different about you!"
We stared at each other, the silence ringing between us.
"What exactly are you trying to say?" she asked, voice trembling.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration clawing at my chest. "I don't know. But something's wrong. Something has been wrong since you came home, and I can't keep pretending I don't see it."
The baby started crying harder.
"I need to feed her," she said quickly, standing up. "You've upset her."
"Erica….."
"I need to go."
She fled the room, clutching the baby, leaving me standing there like a fool.
For a long time, I didn't move.
Then I followed. Quietly.
Her voice drifted from the nursery; soft, humming a tune.
I stopped outside the door, hand hovering over the knob.
But I didn't go in.
After a moment, I turned and walked away.