Rejecting His Return

The white lilies felt cool against my fingers as I arranged them in the simple stone vase before my parents' graves. Three years gone today. Three years since the accident that took them both, leaving me alone in the world except for Malachi.

I traced the engraved letters of their names with my fingertips, a habit I'd developed since losing my hearing. The marble was smooth beneath my touch, worn by the elements and my annual visits.

"I'm doing well," I signed to them, my hands moving in the familiar patterns that had become my voice. "Malachi has been wonderful. He learned sign language for me, you know. Said he couldn't bear not being able to speak with his wife."

A gentle breeze rustled through the cemetery trees. I closed my eyes, imagining I could hear it—the way leaves used to whisper secrets when I was a child.

"I wish you could have met him," I continued signing. "You would have loved him, Mom. Dad would have approved of how he treats me."

I paused, gathering my thoughts. The treatment Dr. Wells had been administering for months hadn't shown much progress, but I remained hopeful. "The doctors say there might be improvement soon. Maybe someday I'll hear birds again."

As if in response to my words, a strange sensation tickled my ears. I froze, my hands suspended mid-sign. Something was different.

*Tweet-tweet.*

My breath caught in my throat. Was that...? No, it couldn't be.

*Tweet-tweet-tweet.*

There it was again! A bird! I could hear a bird!

"Oh my God," I whispered, my voice rusty from disuse. "I can hear."

The sound of my own voice startled me almost as much as the birdsong. Tears sprang to my eyes as I listened to the world come alive around me. Wind rustling through leaves. A car passing on the distant road. The soft hum of insects.

I pressed my palms against my ears, then moved them away, testing. Testing. It wasn't my imagination.

"I can hear!" I said again, louder this time, my voice breaking. "Mom, Dad, I can hear!"

Joy bubbled up inside me, effervescent and wild. I wanted to run, to dance, to scream my newfound ability to the skies. But first—Malachi. I needed to tell Malachi.

I reached for my phone to text him, then hesitated. No, this news deserved to be delivered in person. I'd go home immediately and surprise him.

As I turned to leave, voices drifted from behind a nearby monument. One of them was achingly familiar.

"—can't keep putting this off, Sarai." Malachi's voice, clear as day.

I froze, my hand still clutching my phone.

"How much longer do I have to wait?" A woman's voice, petulant and young. "Your wife doesn't even know I exist."

"She will," Malachi replied, his tone soothing in a way that made my stomach clench. "Soon. How are you feeling?"

"Morning sickness is terrible. But the doctor says the baby's developing perfectly."

The world tilted beneath my feet. Baby? What baby?

"I know, sweetheart. I'm so sorry you're going through this alone." Malachi's voice dropped lower, intimate. "I promise I'll handle the Johanna situation soon. We can move you into the house next month."

I pressed myself against the cool stone of my parents' monument, my legs suddenly unable to support me. My hearing—my precious, newly returned hearing—was delivering a truth I wasn't prepared for.

"When?" the woman demanded.

"Soon, I promise. Just... give me a little more time."

I bit down on my knuckles to keep from making a sound. The birds continued their cheerful song overhead, oblivious to my shattering world.

---

The drive home passed in a blur. I moved through our house like a ghost, barely registering the familiar paintings on the walls, the photos of Malachi and me smiling at the camera.

"Johanna?" Malachi's voice called from his study. "Is that you?"

I swallowed hard, forcing my face into what I hoped was a neutral expression. "Yes," I replied, my voice still strange to my ears.

He appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light. "Where did you go? I was worried when I came home and you weren't here."

"To visit my parents," I said, watching his face carefully. "It's their anniversary."

Something flickered across his features—discomfort? Guilt? "Oh, right. I forgot."

"You were out too," I observed, keeping my tone casual.

"Just a meeting with some investors." He glanced at his watch. "Listen, about dinner—"

"I can hear you," I interrupted, my voice stronger now. "I can hear everything, Malachi. The doctors were right. My hearing is back."

His expression froze for just a moment before melting into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's... wonderful, darling. What a relief."

But his eyes kept drifting to his phone on the desk behind him.

That evening, I watched him across the dinner table, noting how his fingers tapped restlessly against his wine glass, how his gaze kept returning to his pocket where his phone buzzed with messages he wouldn't answer in my presence.

"How was your day?" I asked, signing as I spoke—an old habit I couldn't break.

"Fine," he replied absently. "Just busy with work."

As he reached for his water glass, his sleeve rode up, revealing a small scratch on his wrist that hadn't been there this morning.

I looked down at my plate, at the food I suddenly couldn't taste, and wondered how long he'd been lying to me—and how much worse the truth would get.