"Daddy, daddy, look!"

His youngest child, Clarice, dashed through the hallway. One hand held a soggy, half-eaten chocolate chip cookie, the other a plastic bag filled with water; an orange goldfish shook in it, eyes wide in terror. Or maybe that's just how they naturally looked.

Regardless, Zack pitied the poor animal.

"Mr. Bubbles woke back up just like you said." Clarice shook the bag with reckless abandon as she spoke. It'd be a miracle for any fish to survive more than a week with her, and miracles didn't happen in this world.

Zack and his wife - Priscilla - replaced 'Mr. Bubbles' for the fifth or sixth time that year. It felt almost cruel to keep this secret from Clarice, but children were better left shielded from the world's cruelty.

He smiled at his daughter and whispered, "we told you the Bubblenator would be fine, didn't we?" His throat felt sticky from the fake-sweet voice adults spoke to children in, but he continued. "But please, keep it down for mommy's sake. She's a bit sad right now. Ok?"

Wide, searching eyes met him, but a verbal response attacked him from behind.

"Mom's doing fine." His teenage son - Trevor - said. He stuffed three whole cookies in his mouth and choked out, "She's cooking up a storm and humming in the kitchen. You ask me, never been happier."

That's precisely what I'm worried about, Zack thought. His son didn't understand women. If they went more than two days without complaining, it was suspicious. His wife had gone seven, a code red. He imagined biting into a soft cookie she made especially for him, only to find divorce papers hidden in it like a fortune cookie.

His blood froze over at the thought. His greatest fear was his wife coming to her senses and leaving him - maybe she'd leave the kids with him, to add insult to injury.

He orders his son to pretend to be a good brother and watch Clarice, and he prepared to face the monster in the kitchen. She was ready for him, draped in a pink frilly apron. Her skin looked moist and soft; lush lashes accentuated her narrow eyes. She held a black spatula, perfectly balancing two warm cookies. She crooned -"Hi Honey,"- in a voice the sirens would envy. The perfect wife.

But not his wife. The Priscilla he knew only eyed him like a worm, berated him for his unhealthy eating habits, and disciplined him like he was the third child. She'd badger him about the clothes in the hamper, the smell of beer on his breath, and any other shortcoming. Secretly he welcomed it; it was a sign she hadn't given up on him and the marriage yet.

He was still trying to figure out what to make of this new pattern of behavior. He grabbed the cookies, smiled, and asked her, "anything you need me to do?"

"Hmmmm. No. You can relax and watch sports." Priscilla said.

"What about the trash?"

"I took it out already."

"I could wash the dishes."

"Cleaned those while I cooked. It's always easier that way."

"The gutters?"

"I hired someone to do it while you were at work."

Zack's frozen blood began to crack. His wife may have already realized that she didn't need him. He'd hoped he could keep the wool over her eyes until he was on his deathbed, only croaking the truth to her at the last moment. You've been bamboozled. Major life events had a way of making anyone reevaluate their lives, and she had a doozy of one last week.

Eight days ago, she attended the funeral of her estranged sister. The details burned vividly in his mind. It wasn't hard; there was little to remember. A minuscule crowd consisting of him, Priscilla, and their two children were the only ones to attend.

Before the funeral, his wife hardly spoke of this sister, so he assumed she was showing face. But at the event, her head hung like a dog caught stealing Thanksgiving ham, and he swore she used the cover of the rain to mask her tears. Since then, her bold and slightly - probably more than slightly - condescending demeanor had been replaced by this new bubbly avatar. She was a peace sign and dance away from being a damn anime character.

"Look, Priscilla, if you want to talk about the funer-"

"Oh dear, I forgot the ingredients for dinner. I'll have to go to the store." She vanished before he could stop her.

Pre-funeral Priscilla would have made him get the ingredients.

It was always like that when he mentioned the funeral. She'd do anything in her power to avoid talking about it. In one of his less exemplary moments, he'd asked while they lay in bed and gleefully watched her tie her hair back and straddle him. Replaying the manipulative moment in his head made him feel sick. Divorce was coming, for sure.

The following day, Zack began a last-ditch effort to save his marriage. He scavenged the attic, searching for mementos from the past, anything that could pull the old Priscilla out of the animated clutches of this new persona. Through the dim light, his eyes located a dust-covered album book. He scoured the book looking for ammunition and only found questions.

Each picture in that book contained two avatars of his wife. He assumed camera malfunction at first, before the dim light bulb in his mind sparked. Twins. Her sister is a twin. Cool, he thought. He placed the album book down and descended from the attic before the lighting of epiphany struck twice.

Twins. Twin sister dead. Wife is acting different. Almost like a new person.

It was impossible, that type of thing only happened in movies. If he had talent, he'd make a kine Hollywood scriptwriter with his impressive imagination. Childish imagination, Priscilla would say, unless she was dead.

No. Get that out of your stupid head, Zack thought. Someone would notice, this isn't a movie. Life isn't filled with mindless side characters, utterly unaware of their surroundings. He pushed the thought to the side of his head. He was at peace until he remembered it was a closed-casket funeral.

It was all too suspicious. But, try as he might, he couldn't let it go. It made sense in a moronic way. His wife, perfectly domesticated? Priscilla? She'd rather be stoned by molten rock. He had to do something to quell his stupidity.

At dinner, he asked Priscilla to pass him the mashed potatoes. When Trevor reached, Zack launched into a speech about following direction and obedience. Trevor left the table, storming up a storm of attitude. A small price to pay.

When Priscilla reached to give him the mash, he clutched her wrist and pulled her shirt sleeve back. He searched. Zack had picked Priscilla up mid-tantrum in his foolish younger days and spun her around, hoping to defuse her with humor. He wasn't aware of his surroundings and spun her into a pole. His diffusion attempt backfired. The mark from that day was not on this Priscilla's arm.

Her eyes narrowed at his touch, but she flashed a smile.

After dinner, he insisted on helping Priscilla clean the dishes. She resisted but allowed him to hover around.

A stale silence sat in the kitchen with them. She did the scrubbing; he passed her dishes. Conspiracy theories swam in his mind the whole time until he finally unleashed them.