My Life as a Capybara in a Tragedy

I’m supposed to be an emotionally stable capybara, but I've been dropped into the body of a tragic wife, complete with all her baggage—every last ounce of her heartbreak.

Her husband, Jack, dotes on his childhood sweetheart, Sophia. Even their son, Tim, dreams of Sophia becoming his new mother.

This is great. I don't want to do anything, anyway.

So when Jack gets a call late at night and tries to sneak out, I don’t make a scene. Instead, while clutching the phantom ache in my chest, I calmly hand him his coat.

1

The sound of Jack’s voice, hushed and urgent, pulled me from sleep.

He was tiptoeing out of bed, his voice a low murmur of concern for the woman on the other end of the line—his precious Sophia. He slipped on his clothes, grabbed his car keys, and made a beeline for the door.

"Wait."

The sound of my voice froze him in his tracks. He turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing his handsome features.

"Sophia's alone," he began, his tone already defensive. "The power's out, and I—"

"Put on your coat before you go," I said, my voice flat. "It's cold out."

His irritation morphed into stunned disbelief. He stared at me for a long moment, as if seeing a stranger. But I just turned away, listless, gently rubbing the ache in my chest that wasn't truly mine.

Seeing that I wasn’t gearing up for the usual tear-filled fight, Jack's expression softened. He walked back to the bed and pressed a quick, dutiful kiss to my forehead.

"Don't be difficult, Erika. I'll be back soon."

I nodded, feeling nothing but the relentless throb in my heart, which now seemed to be intensifying.

The click of the front door was my cue. I dragged myself out of bed and swallowed a painkiller. It was a futile gesture, more for psychological comfort than any real relief.

It’s been two months since the original Erika tried to end her life, paving the way for my arrival. This late-night drama with Jack was routine. I was too tired to be angry. For a capybara, anger is just too much trouble.

Even if I am cursed with her memories and her pain.

The feeling, or lack thereof, persisted the next morning. I'd woken up early to make breakfast for our son, Tim. He took one look at the oatmeal I'd prepared and wrinkled his nose in disgust, scraping the bowl's contents directly into the trash.

"Mom, I've told you a million times, I want pancakes for breakfast! Sophia always remembers. Why can't you?" His disdain was written all over his face.

I should have been furious. I should have felt a pang of hurt.

Instead, I just picked up my own bowl and slowly ate my oatmeal.

"Then you should go ask her to make you breakfast."

Tim, who had been ready to launch into a full-blown tirade, choked on his next words. My quiet suggestion, meant to be helpful, landed like a venomous dart.

His face crumpled, and he burst into tears. With a furious swipe of his arm, he sent his own empty bowl and silverware crashing to the floor.

"You're a bad mom! A horrible mom!" he wailed, his voice echoing through the cavern...