The Insignificant Wife

Words by Bethan Charles

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

You call me unbedeutend—insignificant—in your letter, though how fickle your memory is, dear husband. I want to shred your words, but I must save your misjudged letter as evidence of your denial.

Remember our first years? I could’ve danced when I finally arrived in the city kissed with snow. Zurich’s Institute gave me challenges worthy of my skill. Mathematical puzzles set by our universe whose true beauty eluded all, it seemed, but you and me. Your confidence stoked my anxieties, though your charm eroded my nerves. With you, I found my voice. Every night we talked until our lamps burnt to darkness. You were so full of ideas. I made sense of your brilliant ramblings, wrote recipes for your theories, gave structure to your chaos.

Remember your pride when I scored a five in the finals? Higher than you. Then, when our professor failed me, you said, “Never give up.” And for years, I didn’t.

Remember our first article? Capillarity. I went cross-eyed observing water flow through those thread-like tubes. The water climbed upwards, no longer slave to gravity, that elusive force that perplexed you past the point of obsession. The article was insignificant compared to the others, but it was our first, my favorite, though my decision has haunted me. “Publish under your name,” I said. “Omit mine.” You agreed. We knew the world would ignore a woman’s work, as our professor had ignored my degree. Besides, we were one and the same. You were the coin’s head while I was its tail.

Remember our perfect months? The ones you never speak of. When we picnicked on Lake Como’s shores, talking until a symphony of crickets interrupted us. You persuaded me to swim. I relinquished my modesty and surrendered myself to the exhilarating waters. Afterwards, we strolled under the stars whose mysteries we uncovered with our minds. Under their light, we found our meaning.

Later, when our Lieserl arrived, life felt as limitless as the galaxy.

I cannot finish a day without thinking of Lieserl. Can you?

Do you remember our boys’ childhoods? You worked so hard you barely saw them, though when we drafted your theories, I believed your absence had been worth it. The articles were inspired, and the world agreed. Recognition at last, for you.

But fame makes lions of tabby cats.

I remember the year I lost you—when I realized my man who once swam under the stars now flew amongst them, leaving me grounded. Then I discovered I shared you. Of course, you assumed it a secret, dismissing me as a fool, thinking me unimportant, insignificant.

I will not mourn our marriage. Or believe the insults you write. Your absence will not render me unbedeutend because I’ll not allow you to brush my work into the embers of history. So, I’ll keep your letters as I’ll keep your name. When the world reads these theories, they need only remember one word—Einstein.

About the author

Bethan Charles is a UK-based scientist who spends her spare time swimming and writing fiction, mainly around the science of the near-future, climate change, and underrepresented voices in research. She’s won Globe Soup’s international short story competition and has flash fiction and short stories published with Globe Soup and The Copperfield Review.

About the illustrator

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating whimsical art and illustrations since a child; her inspiration comes from the cartoons, comic strips and animated movies she grew up with. In 2016, Yaleeza began expanding her art into her own business named Rowan Ink. It began with a simple pair of hand-painted, custom-made shoes for a friend’s birthday. Through her artistic journey she has expanded into different art mediums, but her true passion is sketching, illustrating and painting. Yaleeza currently resides in the south side of Indianapolis with her husband, her dog, and her cat. You can find her current artwork at Rowaninkstudio.com.