Page 61 of Faultlines

The physician has a kind expression. She listens without interruption while taking notes, her pen scratching against the paper.

When I finish, she looks at me, calm and serious. “You’re not imagining any of this, Claire.”

The words land, and a dam inside me breaks. She explains what’s happening inside my body, and for the first time, the chaos has a name. It’s relief. It’s being seen after years of feeling invisible, even to myself.

At one point, she asks how long I’ve been dealing with the symptoms.

“Longer than I realize.”

She nods knowingly, a slight rustle of her coat as she shifts. “Most women say that.”

By the end of the appointment, we’ve discussed several options: lifestyle changes, nutrition, exercise, sleep support, and hormonal treatment possibilities. Nothing feels overwhelming or scary. I feel an unexpected sense of hope, like a tiny sprout pushing through frozen earth.

As I walk to my car, I find myself turning it over: somewhere along the way, while taking care of everyone around me, I stopped paying attention to myself, stopped listening when my body was trying to tell me something. Those thoughts follow me on the drive home.

The click of the latch is loud when I open the front door causing Ethan to look up. He’s sitting on the couch, the soft glow of a laptop screen illuminating his face.

“How was your appointment?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“Good.”

“Good?”

I set down my bag with a soft thud. “Actually, fantastic.”

He closes the laptop, the lid clicking shut, and turns his full attention to me. “That’s better.”

“We’re going to start with some blood work,” I say, pausing on my way to the kitchen. “Just to get a baseline for my hormone levels.” I wait for his reaction, but he just nods.

I let out a breath and pivot toward the kitchen. “I’m making roasted chicken. Ellie needs help with her summer math challenge, if you don’t mind. You know math and I don’t get along.”

He chuckles. “I couldn’t possibly forget. I doubt you could have passed college math without my help.”

From the kitchen, I hear the murmur of their voices, the familiar cadence of Ethan explaining a problem. I’m about to put the chicken in the oven when an object hits the table—Ellie’s pencil, I’m guessing.

“Dad, you’re terrible at explaining this. You’re literally an architect!”

“That doesn’t mean I know math.”

“Dad.”

“Okay, fine. It means I know some math.”

As they debate, my gaze keeps drifting to Ethan’s briefcase, unzipped just an inch with something peeking out. I tell myself I’m reaching for my water bottle, but my hand finds leather instead. The sketchbook is sitting on top of blueprints and invoices. It doesn’t appear to look like something he meant to keep hidden. My thumb traces the worn cover after I pull it free.

The first page is a quick charcoal sketch of a woman’s face, her expression animated as if mid-sentence. Ms. Whitmore. I turn the page. There she is again, laughing, her head thrown back. And on the next, in profile, concentrating on something outside the frame. One after another, it’s her. Some are from rehearsal, but others—look more intimate. Another has her in a coffee shop or restaurant I don’t recognize. The Ethan who drew me with this same focus is a ghost from our newlywed days. This is something else altogether.

I sit alone in the kitchen, the sketchbook closed on the table in front of me. My phone buzzes—a message from Sloane.

Sloane: How was the appointment?

It went well. I feel hopeful.

Sloane: I told you so.

I read her last message again, knowing I should respond. But I can’t look away from Ethan’s sketchbook. I let my phone go dark, its reflection vanishing from my eyes.

I spend the next day trying to shove the images from the sketchbook into a box in my mind, but they keep clawing their way back out. By early afternoon, I’m pacing my office, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles whiten, nausea rolling through me in waves. A hesitant knock pulls me from my thoughts. I jump so hard I nearly knock over a plant.