While I Was Dying, My Husband Replaced Me

I started with the face.

The woman at the Nordstrom counter had perfect skin. Smooth. Glowing. Like she'd never stood under an overpass in the rain. She smiled at me with white teeth and asked what I was looking for.

"Everything," I said.

She blinked.

"I want to look different," I said. "Better."

She nodded slowly. Pulled out a chair. Sat me down under bright lights.

Two hours later, I walked out with bags. Serums. Creams. Things in glass bottles that cost more than our first month's rent used to be. I put them in the trunk of my car and drove to the next store.

Clothes came next. I scrolled through Skyla's Instagram in the dressing room. Studied the way she posed. The way her shoulders angled. The way she held her chin.

I bought dresses that looked like hers. Heels that were too high. A coat with clean lines.

At home, I hid everything in the guest room closet. Practiced walking in the heels on the carpet. Fell twice. Got up. Tried again.

Derek didn't notice. He was gone most nights.

I hired a woman named Patricia who taught etiquette to corporate wives. She came to the house on Tuesday afternoons when Derek was at the office. She made me practice sitting. Standing. Holding a wine glass. Entering a room.

"You apologize with your body," she said. "Stop that."

I tried.

She made me walk across the living room twenty times. Chin up. Shoulders back. No hunching.

"Pretend you belong," she said.

I didn't know how to pretend that.

But I practiced.

Every morning, I used the serums. Followed the steps. Watched YouTube videos about contouring. My face in the mirror started to look different. Sharper. More defined.

I studied Skyla's photos like a textbook. The way she smiled. The way she tilted her head. The way she stood next to Derek in pictures he posted without telling me.

I bought her perfume. Wore it once. Felt sick. Threw it away.

The radiation appointments continued. Thursday mornings at seven. I scheduled them early so I could be home before Derek woke up. The marks on my neck faded between sessions. I covered them with concealer.

Dr. Yuen asked if I was managing.

"Yes," I said.

She looked at me like she didn't believe me. But she didn't push.

Three weeks in, Derek mentioned a gala. Some investor's charity event. Black tie. Important people.

"You should come," he said. He was looking at his phone. Not at me.

"Okay," I said.

He didn't look up.

I bought a gown. Navy blue. Simple. Elegant. The kind Skyla would wear. I had my hair done at a salon downtown. The stylist swept it up. Pinned it. Sprayed it until it didn't move.

I practiced my posture in the guest room mirror. Chin up. Shoulders back. Pretend you belong.

The night of the gala, I got dressed alone. The gown fit perfectly. The heels made me taller. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw someone I didn't recognize.

Maybe that was the point.

Derek was waiting downstairs. He wore a tuxedo. Looked at his watch.

I came down the stairs slowly. Carefully. The way Patricia taught me.

He glanced up. His eyes moved over me. No expression.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

We drove to the hotel in silence.

The ballroom was full of people in expensive clothes. Chandeliers. Champagne. A string quartet in the corner. I recognized some faces from Derek's investor meetings. Others I'd only seen in photos.

Derek's hand was on my back. Guiding me. Not affectionate. Functional.

We stopped near a group of men in tuxedos. Derek shook hands. Laughed at something someone said. I stood beside him. Chin up. Shoulders back.

One of the men glanced at me. Smiled politely.

"This is Lina," Derek said. His voice was flat. "My wife."

The man nodded. "Pleasure."

A woman in a red dress joined us. She looked at me. At my gown. At my hair.

"You look lovely," she said.

I smiled. The way I'd practiced. "Thank you."

Derek's hand tightened on my back. Just slightly.

We moved through the room. More introductions. More polite smiles. I held a champagne glass I didn't drink from. Stood where Derek positioned me.

Then we stopped near another group. Investors. A woman I recognized from the business section of the Seattle Times. A man with silver hair.

Derek was talking. Something about quarterly projections. I stood beside him. Silent. Present.

The woman glanced at me. Then at Derek.

"Your wife is stunning tonight," she said.

Derek looked at me. Really looked. For the first time all evening.

His mouth curved. Not a smile. Something else.

"She's trying," he said. His voice carried. Light. Conversational. "But she looks like a stray trying to pass as a purebred."

Silence.

Then someone laughed. Uncertain. Awkward.

The woman's smile froze.

I stood there. Champagne glass in my hand. Navy gown. Perfect hair. Chin up. Shoulders back.

I felt the crack run through me. Thin. Sharp. Like ice breaking.

I didn't move.

Derek turned back to the conversation. Kept talking. The group shifted. Someone changed the subject.

I stood in the center of them. Holding my glass. Breathing.

Pretend you belong.

I couldn't.

I never would.

I set the champagne glass on a passing tray. Walked to the bathroom. Locked myself in a stall.

I pressed my hand against my throat. The skin was warm. Radiation warm.

I closed my eyes.

Two wars.

One I was losing.

One I was dying from.

I opened my eyes. Stood up. Smoothed my gown.

Walked back out into the ballroom.

Derek was laughing with the silver-haired man. He didn't look at me when I returned to his side.

I stood there until the gala ended.

Chin up.

Shoulders back.

A stray in a purebred's dress.