Vestige

Chapter 1: Astor

As I emerge from sleep, I take inventory of my body without movement: my head centered on the pillow, my shoulders resting evenly against the mattress, my spine aligned, my hands poised at my sides, fingers gently curled. I am lying supine, exactly as I fell asleep.

Unmoved.

Like a forgotten relic, like the breathless earth, like a corpse.

But I am alive. So, I inhale, filling my lungs and pausing before releasing the breath—thoughtlessly, instinctively. I draw in another breath, slower this time, noticing the way it fills my chest, expands against my ribs, then settles back into place. Controlled. Intentional.

I pause in gratitude. Grateful for breath. For air. Filtered. Reliable. I do not remember the last time I woke to air that did not feel this way, though somewhere in me there is a faint recollection of something thicker.

At first, there is only darkness. Then movement as I slip the silk eye mask over my head, careful not to disturb the silk scarf securing my tresses in place. My eyes open gradually, blinking away the residue of sleep and allowing the room to come into focus in pieces rather than all at once. The ceiling first—smooth, uninterrupted, the light diffused evenly across it. Then the edges of the room, glimmers of light behind dark curtains. Slowly the faint lines of furniture come into focus, the careful placement of each object where it belongs.

My gaze lingers on the deep navy velvet tufted sofa; a fur throw cascades over its arm, its fibers a soft echo of something wild, primal. Nearby, a bronze basket holds excess blankets. The emerald round pillows stand at either end of the sofa, arranged with such certainty they seem aware of their role in the tableau.

In front of the sofa, a marble table trimmed in bronze reflects the soft light of the room. At its center rests a crystal bowl, holding two small devotional books—objects of intention, or perhaps appearance. Candles stand nearby, their wicks unlit but ready. Fresh flowers lean slightly toward the light, alive in a space that feels as if nothing within has ever truly awakened.

My eyes rest on my Bible, light blue and leather-bound, atop the dresser with bronze handles. My grandmother gifted it to me, hoping to pass down the comfort it had brought her. Now it carries the weight of something else: less like comfort, more like compulsion. I shift with unease at how easily something sacred can be reshaped into something lethal.

Above it hangs a simple painting I once gave my grandmother before she died. The artist, I later learned, suffered from schizophrenia. His work shifted with his psychosis—at times dark and hellish, at others impossibly light, almost celestial. I try, for a moment, to imagine what it would be like to live inside that oscillation—to move endlessly between heaven and hell with no reconciliation, no center.

My grandmother taught me about God long before others taught me about religion. She believed Christ lived in ordinary people and simple moments—in meals delivered after loss, in intercessory prayers offered without request, in hands held at hospital bedsides. She endured the world’s new reverence for quiet women, the failing air, the relocations that scattered (and disappeared) neighbors and friends. She survived until there was no home left in her to leave.

I’m glad she died before the faith that sustained her became unrecognizable.

There is a tightness in my chest. Breathe. Redirect my attention to the stillness of the room.

Silence is broken only by the low hum of the air purifier—such a strange, almost absurd necessity, to purify air. And yet the sound is steady, rhythmic, soothing. The purifier labors quietly beside me, correcting what the world has made unsafe. I have come to rely on it. I sit in the stillness and let the peace settle around me. The structure, like the air purifier, is not incidental—it is essential. There is no impurity here. Everything is filtered now. Even the air is chaste.

It takes me these moments to notice the familiar emptiness beside me. The bed tells me what I already know. He is long gone. I rise without hesitation—no indulgence in the softness of sheets. The movement is deliberate, preserving the order I have maintained through the night. The sheets fall cleanly behind me as I slip out of the bed. But a single crease remains where my body had rested. I smooth it once, then again, pressing out a wrinkle so slight it would not be noticed by anyone else.

But I would notice.

I enter the bathroom, the cold marble awakening my feet, a sharp contrast to the soft carpet in the bedroom. I pause at the threshold. This brief time is mine, so I relish it.

I approach the double basins, his & hers. The “his” is pristine. I lean over the “hers.” Two sculptural fixtures rise from the marble as though they were grown rather than installed. The faucet is cast in that familiar brushed bronze—muted, not reflective—its surface warm rather than bright, the finish absorbing light instead of returning it. The arc, deliberate, precise enough to feel inevitable.

I place my hand over the handles, which are not handles. They are smooth, cylindrical forms set low into the stone. There is no turning, no resistance. The handles are anticipatory. There is no sound when they move.

Water does not rush. It releases. A clear, controlled stream—perfectly aerated, without splash, without variation—falls into the basin with a quiet consistency that suggests it has been calibrated rather than simply turned on. The temperature adjusts seamlessly, without fluctuation, as the faucet understands the requirement before it is fully expressed. I extend my hand under the water, breaking its flow for my function.

There is a marble tray on the marble counter. It is home to my cleanser, my serum, and my moisturizer—all hand-selected by me. I wave my hand and the cleanser dispenses into my palm—milky, weightless—and when I bring it to my skin, it yields immediately. I breathe in the sweet scent of almond mixed with orange. For a moment, I feel weightless as well. There is a rhythm to it now, one I do not deviate from. I work it in carefully, attentive to the contours of my face, the places where tension gathers, where the skin is more delicate, more prone to error.

When I bow to the arc to rinse my face in the basin, the water meets my skin at the precise temperature—it neither shocks nor soothes. I pat dry with a soft cotton cloth, pressing gently. My skin, when I touch it, is supple. Renewed. There is a quiet satisfaction in that—not indulgence, not quite pride, but acknowledgment. Care, when applied correctly, produces results. It would be irresponsible not to maintain what God has given.

I lean into the unforgiving magnifying mirror. I notice a stray brow hair—pluck. A small imperfection—addressed. I tilt my chin slightly, observing the symmetry, the evenness of tone, the quiet polish of what looks back at me. The face reflected to me is curiously vapid.

For a moment, I hold her gaze.

Then I unwrap my chestnut hair and let it fall down my back. It settles with a familiar weight, smooth and controlled, catching the light in muted strands. I draw the brush through it slowly, beginning at the ends, working upward in measured passes. The bristles glide through, aligning each strand, restoring order where needed. Again. And again. And again. The motion becomes something quieter as it repeats. There is a care in it that feels almost maternal—not indulgent, but attentive. When I am finished, I run the brush once more through the full length, ensuring continuity—no strays.

I walk across the bathroom to the dressing room. Each instrument answers the next in harmony: the door opens before me, closes behind me, and the room greets me with warm light as the bronze rod above my head begins to rotate. My garments—silks, cottons, and soft knits—slowly dance above me, creating a breeze like a gentle flight of butterflies. When the garment carousel comes to rest, today’s selection is before me. The latch of the hanger releases. I gather my clothing for the day. I place each item, one by one, on the bench beside me. The latch makes a quiet click as it closes. Nothing is decided in the moment. No invitation to error.

I untie the ribbons of my silk nightgown, and it whispers as it falls around my feet. I slip into my undergarments, touching all of the untouched places. I sit briefly on the bench and guide the stockings over my feet, smoothing the fabric upward rather than pulling. The fabric is chosen for containment—for the way it holds the body in quiet agreement. Then the slip—soft, pale, and nearly invisible—falls cleanly into place. I raise the skirt over my unforgiving hips, appreciating its natural fiber, which moves just enough as I walk, never clinging, never drawing attention. I grasp the soft cotton fabric of the undershirt, stretching it over my head so as not to disturb one single hair. One hand, then the other, slips into the silk blouse; my hands move quickly but intentionally over the small buttons until the blouse is closed and lies exactly as it should.

A cashmere cardigan, its softness grounding, is the final touch.

I take a moment to check the seam of my stockings, the way my skirt hangs, the line of the buttons on my blouse, and the fall of my sweater.

I remember a time before the correction, when clothing was chosen in the moment. Guided by preference rather than intention. Guided by allure and other ailments. I remember women walking through town in garments that clung or revealed or distracted: cotton lifting in the breeze, bare shoulders catching the sun, hems brushing thighs, fabric drawing the eye where the body moved beneath it. As though the body were something to be displayed rather than disciplined. As though visibility were a form of freedom. I can’t remember, now, how that was not experienced as vulnerability. How the absence of structure did not feel like risk. Now my own clothing is chosen without consideration of preference, with no deference to desire: fabrics layered in obedience, coverings for containment, tones that do not summon notice. Nothing clings. Nothing reveals. Nothing distracts.

The thought lingers only briefly. I don’t allow it more. I never do.

Dressed, I pause at the top of the long staircase. The steps are broad, widening at the base, the carved banister descending beside them like an offered hand. Once I was afraid of stairs. Now I place my hand on the rail and glide down. There are so many things more worthy of fear now. By the time my feet reach the main floor, the muffled robotic voice has begun in the other room. I do not answer it yet. The kitchen is ahead. My tea is ahead. My steps quicken. A smile escapes across my face.

The kitchen is bright despite the absence of sun. I gaze through the windows stretching the width of the room. Beyond them, the landscape is softened by a pale haze that reflects muted gold and amber hues off the Taj Mahal quartz counters, selected with just this effect in mind. Light should not depend on something as inconsistent as the sun.

Smooth and empty countertops sit untouched. Every object remains precisely where it belongs. The room remains as I left it, unmoved through the night. Relief settles quietly into my chest. Nothing has shifted.

The kitchen bears the evidence of intention everywhere: cabinet faces flush, appliances concealed, surfaces uninterrupted. Ethan approved the stone himself. Naturally. The quartzite waterfall island sits at the center, bathed in light and built for use. Beyond it, the kitchen gives way to the hearth, where warmth lingers longest before a stone fireplace rises from floor to ceiling, dividing the space without fully separating it. On one side, preparation. On the other, presentation. Beyond the stone, I receive guests and represent my household—my husband—well.

Ethan.

My husband.

There is no trace of him now. No lingering scent of something recently brewed. No crumbs. No plate waiting beside the sink. No sweater laid over a chair. When Ethan departs, he discards no remnants. His badge is gone from the tray by the door, his coat from the hook, his shoes from the mat reserved for outside. The world receives him each morning. The house keeps what remains. Me.

I remain where things are known. Where they are kept.
I am kept.
He keeps me. He provides. I maintain.
Together, we are partners.
I couldn’t exist without him.
It’s not allowed.

I open the tea cabinet. An array of glass jars, organized by color, holds the loose leaves. I scoop the leaves first from one jar, using a separate scoop for the next, careful not to cross-contaminate them, keeping the bright red rooibos base separate from the blood orange ginger blend. I pour them into the diffuser. I pour the hot water in and watch intently as the liquid deepens in color.

A few leaves escape.

They float, disobedient.

I feel it immediately—a small, sharp irritation in my chest. I consider starting over, restoring the order.

Instead, I watch them.

Suspended.

Out of place.

And for a moment—just a moment—I let them remain.

Chapter 2: Michelle

I awake to the sensation of light kisses on my neck, shoulder, down my back. The window is open, and the summer breeze makes the curtains dance, floating gently out and back again, like breath. The air is crisp and clean for a change. It’s quiet, but I know the rush of the day will come. Just one more moment… I let my eyes linger closed. Ethan’s hand rests warm at my waist, anchoring me in a way that feels grounding and familiar. The sheets are tangled at our legs, half-pulled free. The faint scent of his cologne and my perfume hangs in the air, mixing together, creating something distinctly ours. I shift slightly, and he follows, instinctively, like the movement itself is a language we both understand without translating. I turn toward him, opening my eyes slowly.

The sight of him is like sunlight, warming me from the inside out. The light in the room is softer than it should be, filtered through the movement of the curtains. It lands unevenly across his face, catching in places, leaving others in shadow. I study him the way I always do, quietly collecting pieces of him to carry with me through the day. He is beautiful. Not because I don’t see his flaws—but because even those feel intentional. Like they belong exactly where they are. I wonder, briefly, if he sees me the same way. My hair is tangled, mascara faintly smudged beneath my eyes.

“Morning,” Ethan murmurs against my shoulder, his voice still thick with sleep.

His fingers trace absent patterns along my arm, not asking, not leading—just existing alongside me. And for a moment—just a moment—I let myself stay here.

Sunlight spills through the curtains and settles unevenly across his face. He squints, then bolts upright.

“I’m late,” he says, annoyance creeping into his voice.

The covers tumble onto the floor as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He crosses the room to the laundry basket filled with towels that somehow never make it to the linen closet, grabs one, and disappears into the bathroom. For a moment my heart sinks, as though I dreamed the whole scene and woke alone. Then he peeks his head around the doorframe with that boyish grin that still undoes me and says, “Good morning,” before disappearing again. I melt back into the covers, breathing in his lingering scent.

Soon after he is gone. No time for breakfast or even coffee. He has rounds. He is a first-year intern. Bottom of the hospital food chain.

When he leaves, I miss him so deeply that I replay memories of him, which is pathetic, probably, but also true. I remember the moment we met. I was nineteen. We were on a group date, both with other people, which still feels like some cosmic administrative error. My date was inconsequential. Well—he became inconsequential the moment we walked into the restaurant and I saw Ethan at the table with our friends. My date was talking too loudly, making jokes that required everyone to notice him. Ethan was quiet. Not boring quiet. Watchful quiet. The kind of quiet that made me want to earn his attention.

I tried so hard not to look at him. I thought just looking at him would give my inner thoughts away. He was more than handsome. If I could have crafted a man for myself in conjunction with God, he would have looked precisely like Ethan. Which is ridiculous. I know that. But I remember thinking it anyway. And there I was with my date, the clown, burning with embarrassment every time he opened his mouth. When the night ended, I felt this sharp, unexpected loss—like I had missed something before it even began. I remember being jealous of the girl he came with, though I barely knew her. A year later, on a winter day on campus, I saw him from across the quad. Skullcap. Sunglasses. Hands in his coat pockets. I knew from the stirring inside me that it was him. And I knew in that moment he would be one of the seminal people in my life. I just knew.

And he has been.

Just like that, memory breaks: my son stirs in the nursery. I untangle myself from the sheets and step through the narrow path between the laundry basket, a plastic dinosaur, and three wooden blocks I swear I picked up last night. One sock rests on the arm of the sofa like it has made a decision. I keep trying to impose order, and the house keeps resisting.

The nursery is the one place I almost got right. Two walls are painted soft sunshine yellow, and the others are lined with clouds drifting across a pale blue sky. It’s simple. Sparsely furnished. Just the crib, my grandmother’s rocking chair, and a hand-me-down dresser with one drawer that sticks unless you lift it first. Calm-ish. Which is more than I can say for the rest of the house.

“Hey there, little man,” I whisper, lifting him over the rail of the crib.

His body is warm against mine. His curls tickle my cheek. His breath settles against my neck. Without fully waking, his arms wrap around me, fingers clasping together behind my neck as though he already knows exactly where he belongs.

With effort, I carry him across the room. He’s heavy now. I remember when he felt weightless. But I won’t stop picking him up for as long as he’ll let me.

I settle into my grandmother’s rocking chair, the wood creaking softly beneath us.

Then the clock ruins it. I settle him on my bed with a bowl of dry Cheerios and turn on cartoons while I take a shower fast enough to miss conditioner. No time to dry my hair. No time to find the other shoe until Zion is already crying that the first one feels wrong. Then we’re out the door. Daycare drop-off. Traffic. Work.

At the clinic, I move quickly. Bag down. Laptop open. Calendar already too full. Six unread messages. Two crisis notes unfinished. A voicemail blinking red before I’ve even sat down. I’m trying to get ahead of the day before it starts happening to me.

My phone buzzes.

I don’t need to look. I know who it is.

“Have a good day,” Ethan texts.

I smile despite myself.

“You too. I love you,” I type back, already moving on to the next thing.

The day fills the way it always does—completely, without asking. By ten, I’m sitting across from Camille.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she settles into the chair, fumbling with a diaper bag that doubles as a purse. “Daycare called. Apparently Noah bit another kid.”

I smile. “Apparently that’s a thing now.”

Her shoulders relax. “Yours too?”

I laugh. “Well, he hasn’t bitten people yet, but he chews on absolutely everything.”

“So I’m not alone.” She laughs and begins to sink into the couch.

“How old is he?”

“Four.”

“Is it just me, or is everything harder than people said it would be?”

“Everything,” I say before I can stop myself.

She smiles. “Thank God. Social media makes me feel like everyone else is making homemade baby food and taking family pictures in matching sweaters.”

“I buy chicken nuggets more than I care to admit.”

She laughs again, this time for real.

“Laundry,” she says, counting on her fingers. “Groceries. Daycare. Trying to remember if I showered. I swear I spend half my life picking things up and putting them back down.”

“And then picking them up again,” I add.

“And my husband…” She sighs. “He’s gone more than he’s home. Roving for work. Which sounds romantic until you’re eating cereal over the sink at nine o’clock.”

I smile knowingly, remembering three days ago when I ate Rice Krispies and bananas over the sink with just a dash of milk because that’s all that was left.

“Everyone keeps telling me to enjoy these years,” she says. “And I know I should. I love Noah. I do. But some days I feel like I disappear and then I feel guilty for even thinking that.”

“You don’t have to apologize for being tired,” I say quietly.

She nods.

“They sent me home last week.”

I glance up from my notes.

“My boss said the owner decided mothers should be home with their children.” She looks down at her hands. “Just like that. Everyone acted like I’d won the lottery.”

“How did you feel?”

“At first?” She shrugs. “Relieved. Then terrified. Then guilty for feeling terrified.”

She twists her wedding ring.

“Everyone’s acting like staying home is what women are supposed to want.”

“Maybe some women do,” I say carefully.

“Maybe.” She looks down. “And maybe they’re right. Maybe children do need their mothers. Maybe we’ve all gotten too busy.”

She looks back at me.

“Do you ever feel like everyone’s talking about something and somehow you missed the meeting?”

I laugh softly.

“All the time.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

She smiles.

“Sometimes I think maybe I just need to slow down. Stay home. Make dinner. Be grateful.”

“And would that make you happy?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

The answer hangs between us.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“Of course.”

“Do you think God wants mothers home?”

I hesitate. I want to say I think God wants mothers to be happy. I want to say I think God envisions simpler lives for us. I want to say, I think the men who are making the rules right now are assholes and God doesn’t like assholes. But what I say is,

“I think what’s more important, Camille, is what you think.” I smile gently.

She doesn’t resist my non-answer and doesn’t push. She starts talking about her husband then—the same argument circling itself, the laundry, the money, the way he says he helps but waits to be asked. I nod in the right places. I write something useless in my notes so I don’t have to look at her for a second.

Women are being sent home from work.

They can do that now.

I can’t believe they can do that now.

“Right?” Camille says.

I blink back into the room, pen still pressed too hard against the page. “Right.”

Guilt rises immediately. I am supposed to be here with her.

There is something unsettling in it—the way her life echoes mine. Not identical. But close enough to feel like a warning. I am only still working because they decided—strategically, selectively—to deprofessionalize certain roles. Nurses. Teachers. Counselors. Roles held predominantly by women. Roles they could afford to keep. The hospital newsletter called it “focus on the family.” The break room called it what it was, but only when the door was closed.

I wanted to be a physician… I outperformed Ethan—consistently. My grades were higher. I was selected for research. I did everything right.

We applied to the same programs. I still remember refreshing the admissions portal beside him, both of us sitting on my dorm-room floor with takeout cooling between us. He was accepted to all of them. I was accepted to none.

No one ever said women couldn’t go to medical school. They just stopped accepting us. Not just in medicine. Everywhere. Quietly. Systematically. Applications submitted, never acknowledged. Qualifications met, never recognized. Institutions that continued admitting women lost funding. Eventually, they adjusted.

Brochures stopped showing women in white coats, smiling over microscopes, stethoscopes looped around their necks like promises. When I went to undergrad, there was still the illusion of possibility. Now even the illusion is gone.

So Ethan lives the life we once imagined—my life—and I move between the psych ER and the counseling center, occupying one of the few spaces still deemed appropriate.

For now.

More women are being dismissed every week. Amber from intake last Monday. A school nurse the Friday before that. Not fired—reassigned. Offered the “opportunity” to return home. To assume their “proper” roles. To raise their children.

There is a softness to the language that almost disguises the violence of it.

I would be lying if I said the idea doesn’t tempt me. To be home with Zion. To rest. To stop fighting currents I can no longer see, only feel. My shoulders lower just thinking it, and that scares me most.

But Camille has a husband.

I do not.

Before I know it, I’m packing my bag to leave one job and clock into the other one: Mom. By the time I reach the parking lot, my shoulders ache from carrying things I haven’t touched.

Once home, I lay Zion down for a nap so I can prepare dinner. I practically sprint to the kitchen before he changes his mind. At four, naps are no longer guaranteed. There are dishes in the sink from this morning and a basket of clean laundry sitting on the table because apparently I think dining rooms are for storage now.

I throw a packet of rice in the microwave and chicken into a pan—three breasts, hoping Ethan will be here for dinner. Then I unload half the dishwasher. I should fold the laundry. I should call my mom back. I should switch the clothes to the dryer. I should sit down for ten minutes. I don’t do any of those things.

I glance in on Zion.

He’s been asleep fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

Twenty-five.

Any minute now I will be interrupted.

My phone buzzes.

I know before I even look.

“Need to stay at the library. Boards are killing me. Sorry, babe. Love you.”

Of course.

I text back immediately.

Love you too. Don’t forget to eat.

I mean to put the phone down but instead I stare at his picture for a second. I miss him. Which is ridiculous because I saw him this morning. But I always miss him.

The chicken starts sizzling.

“Seriously?” I mutter, grabbing the pan. I swear I burn more than I cook. Then the patter of little feet. He wanders to my side, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed from sleep, one sock missing, reaching for me like I have been gone forever.

I pick Zion up and place him securely on the counter beside me while I cut the burnt parts off the chicken, grab the rice out of the microwave, and put it all on one big plate we will share. There are enough dirty dishes, and there are no pretenses with a four-year-old, only practicality.

As I eat and feed Zion, my mind drifts.

Five years, and he still doesn’t live here.

He says we’ll get married when he finishes. And I believe him. I do. But belief doesn’t change the shape of my days. It doesn’t fill the space beside me at night or split the weight of things that keep piling up.

I chose this—or at least, I chose parts of it. I remember standing in the doorway with his duffel bag at his feet, wanting so badly to say yes that my whole body felt traitorous. But I told him he couldn’t live here until we were married. I told myself it was about boundaries. About not losing myself completely. About not becoming the thing that supports everything else while disappearing quietly beneath it.

But sometimes I wonder if I drew that line too late.

Or too early.

Or if it even matters.

Of course that was before.

My mother had a career, and her mother worked before her. So when I was young, it seemed like that’s just what you do. Then something began to shift when I was in college. I didn’t think much of it at first. It sounded like one of those cycles people always talk about—things getting simpler, people wanting balance again. I remember scrolling past articles between classes: soft-focus kitchens, families eating dinner together, women in linen aprons “reclaiming space at home.” It wasn’t aggressive. If anything, it sounded… gentle. Thoughtful. Like a correction after too many years of everything feeling rushed and stretched thin. I remember thinking, That’s nice for people who want that.

Now I’m not so sure it’s about what we want. I started noticing words like structure and roles slipping in casually, like they’d always been there. And there was this quiet admiration for women who were stepping back, reorganizing their lives around home, around family. No one said it was the better choice. They didn’t have to. You could feel it.

And the strange thing is—I don’t entirely disagree. There are days I would give anything to stay here. To move slower. To build something quieter, steadier. To be with Zion and Ethan, caring for them.

But lately, it feels like I’m standing inside something still forming while the world tilts in a direction I didn’t choose. Not enough to knock me over.
Just enough that I can’t quite find my footing.