An hour later, Emily was buried beneath the heavy duvet in my guest bedroom, succumbing to an exhausted, chemically assisted sleep for the first time in what must have been weeks.
I, however, was standing perfectly still beneath the harsh vanity lights of my bathroom mirror, executing a transformation.
I stripped off my comfortable sleepwear and pulled on the garments she had discarded. I slipped into the oversized gray sweatshirt, letting the heavy fabric swallow my frame. I pulled the front pieces of my hair loose, allowing them to hang in the same frantic, tangled curtain Emily had worn. Finally, I picked up the heavy, platinum diamond wedding band she had left sitting on my porcelain sink.
I slid the cold metal onto my ring finger. It felt like a handcuff. I was wearing her clothes, her marital brand, and her lingering terror like a borrowed skin.
We were identical, sharing the exact same emerald eyes, the same sharp jawline, the same scatter of freckles across the bridge of our noses. But our spirits were forged in entirely different fires. Emily was a diplomat; I was a soldier.
