She doesn't know how to tell him. The words are so simple and straightforward. Four words are all it will take. But it's more than that. It'll change everything. It's not that simple at all.

The floor is cold and hard beneath her knees. She pulls at a thread on the edge of the bathmat and it unravels surprisingly quickly. The mat will have to be replaced. But it's her favorite. It's silly to have a favorite bathmat. Silly, as well, to care about this. This was so unexpected. She wasn't sure she wanted to do it anyway. She has to keep telling herself that.

It'll break his heart. Not her heart, though. She's not letting herself feel anything. It's easier this way.

It hurts.

Maybe she should paint the walls in here. Maybe green to match the beginning of the Spring weather? Something bright. But then the blue tiles won't match. Maybe she'll redo the whole room. Dark cherry wood with cream trim. Something classic instead. It'll give her something focus on instead of this.

Isobel is supposed to be doing homework in her bedroom upstairs, although Donna can hear music through the ceiling, muted but with a heavy beat. She should tell her to turn it off and get back to studying.

He's not home yet. She should call him. She should have called him already. She should have told him when it happened. She shouldn't have just come home and gone straight to hide in the bathroom. She hasn't even said hello to Isobel. But she doesn't think she can face anyone just yet. Isobel will chatter on about her day, her teachers, her friends, the boy in her Math class that she says she hates-but-secretly-likes.

I need to be alone now. I'm tired.

She pushes the bathmat away and rests her head backwards on the edge of the tub. Her entire body aches.

The music upstairs grows louder and she fishes her Blackberry out of her purse and sends an email to her daughter, telling her to turn it down and finish her homework. The wallpaper on the small screen is a picture of Isobel and Josh, taken last year on vacation. She loves them more than she thought she could ever love anyone.

And she would have lov- oh, she can redo the master bedroom too. They have the money and she has the time. And maybe Isobel would like a redesign of her room now she's in junior high.

The Blackberry vibrates in her lap. She reads the email and composes a quick reply. No, she hasn't planned dinner; yes, go ahead and pick up something on the way home.

There's a chill inside her. She doesn't know why she didn't tell him in the email. But how do you do something like that in an email? She should have called him and told him. But she wants to avoid it for as long as possible. Saying it aloud makes it real. More real than when it actually happened.

Telling Josh will make it final.

I'm cold.

She strips all her clothes off and buries them in the laundry basket. It's almost full. She'll have to wash everything tomorrow. Dammit. She forgot to pick up his suit from the dry cleaner today.

The beat of the music upstairs thumps through her body and she stands in front of the mirror over the sink and stares at herself. There are fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

She's nearing fifty. Suddenly, she feels very old. She thinks it's for the best. It was a complete surprise in the first place. And it was too late to start again anyway even though she always thought she'd have the time. But it's definitely too late and what happened today proves it. She knows the statistics. There was more than a fifty percent chance it... wouldn't go all the way.

We both knew that.

Her chest feels tight. She hates statistics.

She takes her watch off and puts it on the vanity. She doesn't look at the time. It's counting down the minutes to his arrival home. She turns the shower on and sits in the tub under the running water, hoping it will wash the day away. She wishes today had never happened. That she hadn't been alone.

Her body doesn't feel right anymore. She doesn't feel in control of it. She hates that feeling, and she curls up into a tight little ball and rests her head on the tiled wall. She tries to forget.

I'm not thinking about it.

She just doesn't know how to tell him. She doesn't want to have to tell him. She wishes it had never happened in the first place. Her skin starts to pucker from sitting under the spray so long but she doesn't want to move. She doesn't want to do anything.

Tomorrow she'll get on with her life. Tomorrow she'll wake up and eat breakfast with Isobel and Josh. She'll drive her daughter to school and pick up her husband's suit from the dry cleaner. She'll finish writing up her notes for the lecture she promised to present next week. She might do research on bathroom renovation. But she feels like she's a different person now.

I don't know how to do this.

She sits in the tub and waits until the bathroom door opens and he walks in. Only then does she turn the water off and step out from the protective warmth of the shower.

There's Chinese food on the table and it's getting cold. His lecture was a success. Did she get his suit?

She forgot it. She's sorry. She'll pick it up tomorrow. Something happened today that he needs to know about.

He stares at her expectantly. She has to tell him. The bathroom is cold and she starts to shiver, standing naked and wet in front of him and he won't stop staring at her and his smile has given way to a frown of concern. She doesn't want to speak yet. She doesn't want to hurt him.

Stop looking at me. Stop. Stop.

She pulls on her robe. Her eyes burn and there's a lump in her throat.

Donna?

He touches her shoulder and she has to tell him, the words finally spilling out.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Once she starts talking, she can't stop. She explains everything as though she's reciting from a medical textbook. The words sound so cold and distant. She forces back the emotion because she doesn't think she can get through the details if she thinks about how much it hurts inside.

She should have told him earlier. She should have called him when she first realized something was wrong. He should have been there with her. He should have been holding her hand. She needed him. She's so sorry. It was so sudden.

She repeats the statistics, as if he doesn't know them already. They both knew it was a possibility. There was a risk.

He tries to reassure her but his words are laced with sadness.

It's nobody's fault. It just wasn't meant to be. We'll be okay. We'll get through this. I love you. I love you.

She breaks down in tears then, because his arms are wrapping around her, holding her tightly. His body surrounding hers is as warm and comforting as it's always been.

They sit on the bathroom floor together and he strokes her hair, and she leans against him and cries for what should have been. The emptiness inside consumes her.