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 cavernous villa. "Why did Daddy have to marry you? I want Sophia to be my mom!" I continued to eat my oatmeal, calmly turning away from the mess. Capybaras don't do drama. Not interfering was the best I could offer. My lack of reaction only fueled his tantrum. He swept everything within his reach off the table, the sound of shattering porcelain filling the air. Children have a cruel, innate understanding of how to inflict the deepest wounds. "No wonder Daddy likes Sophia more than you!" he screamed between sobs. I ignored him, though the phantom pain in my chest was becoming unbearable. I set down my bowl, moved to the living room couch, and turned on the morning news. It was my primary way of understanding this world; smartphones were a labyrinth of complexity I had yet to master. Two months in, and I could barely send a text message. The television was so much simpler. "What is going on in here?" 2 Jack stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage in the dining room. Tim, spotting his father, immediately ran to him, a fresh wave of sobs racking his small body as he tattled on my supposed morning-of-terror. Jack, who clearly hadn't been home all night, scooped him up and stormed over to me, his face a mask of fury. "It was just a little outburst, Erika. He's a child. Did you have to be so cruel? What if he cries himself sick? If you can't handle something this simple, then maybe you shouldn't be looking after him at all." I gave a slight nod, my eyes still fixed on the television screen. "What is that supposed to mean?" he seethed. "Don't think playing the silent treatment is going to work. One more incident like this, and I'm asking Sophia to move in." "Okay," I said. Jack's rage intensified. "Fine," he snapped, his jaw tight. "You said it. Don't you dare regret it." As if afraid I'd change my mind, he immediately pulled out his phone and started dialing. While he was on the phone, a news report caught my eye. It was about a spectacular firework display at the city's largest amusement park. "Last night at midnight," the cheerful anchor announced, "Ashton City's largest theme park was exclusively booked by Jack Kartalian, CEO of Kartalian Corporation. Mr. Kartalian had the park's entire fireworks inventory set off in a single, breathtaking display to woo his sweetheart. The two were seen in a tender embrace, a truly enviable picture of romance." The screen showed two figures silhouetted against the glittering sky. Even from the back, they looked perfect together. I noticed the coat draped over the woman's shoulders. It was Jack's. He turned back to me just then, the very same coat now looking glaringly out of place on him. He seemed to realize it too, fidgeting with the glasses on his nose. "Erika, listen, it's not what you think. Last night was just—" A sharp, sudden pain lanced through my chest. I shot up from the couch. "You don't have to explain," I said, my voice strained. "I trust you." I tried to keep my tone even as I turned and hurried toward the bedroom. But Jack followed, his voice insistent and grating. "Erika, what is this new game you're playing? Sophia is like a sister to me! I did that for her as a friend. Can't you stop listening to tabloid nonsense?" Every word he spoke was another dagger in my heart. As I reached the stairs, the pain overwhelmed me, and the world went black. I collapsed. Through the fog of my fading consciousness, I thought I heard Jack's voice, cold and distant. "Don't think playing the victim is going to work on me." "Get up, Erika." "Fine. Stay there. See how long you can keep it up." The last thing I heard before slipping into complete darkness was the decisive click of the front door closing. He had really just left me there. A small, detached part of my mind silently condemned his callousness. I couldn't fathom why the original Erika had ever fallen for a man like this. And yet, every time the thought of divorce surfaced, a powerful, deep-seated obsession from her memories would rise up, sealing my lips shut. When I finally woke up, the house was empty. And for some reason, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I knew this emotional rollercoaster wasn't normal. I went online and booked an appointment with a psychiatrist, determined to figure out what was wrong with this body. "Your condition," the doctor said, peering at me over her glasses, "presents as a severe case of Emotional Transference Syndrome. Given the unique circumstances, I'd recommend you first try to redirect your emotional focus. Find a new anchor—a hobby, a passion, anything. But a person can never be your sole pillar of support. If that fails... we may have to consider more intensive treatments, like ECT." Her words echoed in my mind all the way home. I pushed open the front door to the sound of cheerful laughter. 3 Sophia’s luggage was already in the entryway, but she herself was comfortably settled on the couch, sharing a slice of cake with Jack and Tim. Jack fed a bite directly to Sophia, and Tim giggled, playfully complaining that his father was showing favoritism. They looked like the perfect family. The moment I stepped inside, the laughter died. The smiles vanished. Tim shot me a cold glare and turned his head away. Jack's face hardened. "Well, well," he said with a sneer. "Done with your fainting act?" I just nodded, my emotional state still strangely placid. My chest didn't even hurt. It was an unexpected, welcome reprieve. Ignoring them, I started walking toward my bedroom. A sweet voice called out from behind me. "Erika." I turned. Sophia was looking at me, a shy, almost blushing expression on her face. "Erika, I was just looking around, and I absolutely adore your room... the master suite. It's so lovely. Do you think… could I have it?" Her words hung in the air. Both Jack and Tim swiveled their heads to look at me, their eyes filled with a silent warning. It was clear: if I protested, they would pounce. But… throwing a fit was simply not in my nature. "Okay," I said. "It's yours." A flash of triumph, sharp and provocative, lit up Sophia's face. "Oh, thank you, Erika! I knew you wouldn't mind. Could you possibly help me with my things? My self-care skills are a bit weak, and Jack always says you're so good at housekeeping. It would be such a help." The thinly veiled insult was impossible to miss. It was a direct jab, and for the first time, I felt a flicker of genuine annoyance. Without a word, I walked over and took her suitcase. And then I kicked it, hard. It went flying, tumbling down the short flight of stairs with a series of sickening thuds. The smug smile was still on Sophia's face when the final crash echoed through the hall. "Erika, what the hell are you doing?!" Jack was on me in an instant, his voice a furious roar. "If you didn't want to help, you could have just said so! Why would you kick her luggage?" Seeing Jack leap to her defense, Sophia’s eyes immediately welled with tears. "Jack, it's not that I want to make a fuss," she sobbed, "but… the porcelain inside… it was a piece I've been working on for a year…" She knelt and opened the battered suitcase. Inside, a ceramic vase lay in a thousand pieces. Jack couldn't stand to see his beloved cry. He wrapped his arms around her, murmuring comforting words. "It's okay, it's okay. I'll make her apologize. She'll pay for it." A simple ceramic pot, of course, wasn't worth much. But Jack wasn't about to let it go. He grabbed my arm, his grip like iron. "Erika. Apologize." I shook my head, a flicker of satisfaction in my aching heart. "Don't make me say it again. Apologize!" "Miss Kartalian," Sophia whimpered, her eyes misty and pathetic, "if you're angry with me, that's fine. But please, don't take it out on my art. I..." "No apology," I said, my voice steady. "You deserved it." I was simply stating a fact. Who in their right mind packs fragile porcelain in a suitcase for a move, instead of, say, clothes? "Erika! If you don't apologize right now, we are getting a divorce! You can get the hell out of this house today!" I had expected a wave of sorrow to crash over me. But, surprisingly, my heart remained calm, my breathing even. "Okay." I wrenched my arm free and marched to the bedroom, quickly packing a small bag. "If you walk out that door," Jack yelled after me, "don't you ever come back!" I nodded. As I passed Sophia, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger and placed it on the table beside her. "This," I said, "should cover your vase." The sight of the ring on the table finally seemed to break through Jack's rage. A flicker of panic crossed his face. "What do you mean by that, Erika?"
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