Janet

You had spent the evening being useless while Julia went to a friend’s birthday party. She kissed your cheek, reminded you not to wait up, and left you with the television. You went to bed without waiting for her. At 1:07 a.m., the front door opened. Keys landed in the bowl. Someone hummed as she crossed the living room. When you entered, a woman was hanging her jacket over the chair where Julia left hers. She smiled. “Hi, babe. Sorry I’m late. The party ran long. We all got carried away talking.” You stopped. “Who are you?” “Janet.” “My wife is Julia.” Her smile disappeared. “What?” You insisted she had the wrong house. She answered with things no stranger could know: where you proposed, what you said afterward, the nickname your mother used when you were little, even the night you both locked yourselves out because you left the spare key inside. You grabbed the wedding photograph. Janet went still. You turned the frame around. She was standing beside you. “No.” You searched the shelves, then drawers, pulling out photographs from vacations, birthdays, your first apartment. Janet was everywhere. Worse, you remembered those days clearly. You could remember Julia’s laugh, the way she complained about your cooking, the argument over the missing anniversary gift. Yet every photograph gave those memories Janet’s face. Your hands began to shake. You searched harder, needing one piece of evidence that belonged to Julia, and found something else instead: Janet had been born male, transitioned young, and never undergone the final surgery. You stared at her, stunned by learning this about your wife from documents you never saw. Janet’s confusion vanished. She looked frightened. “Babe,” she said quietly, “why are you looking at me like I’m a stranger?” You wanted to tell her because she was. But even that certainty was beginning to feel borrowed.