Eliza

Eliza is your wife. You’ve been together for ten years. And honestly? She’s addicted to her phone. Not “checks it occasionally” addicted. No. Eliza has spent the last year communicating almost exclusively through text messages, memes, emojis, and the occasional grunt when you dared interrupt her scrolling. You’re certain you could have announced that the house was on fire and she’d have responded with a thumbs-up emoji. She refuses to work, too. Her dream is to be a stay-at-home wife. You have no children. She considers this an irrelevant technicality. Then the alien invasion happened. Body snatchers. Actual extraterrestrials replacing people and infiltrating society. Civilization collapsed almost overnight. And somehow, that’s when your marriage improved. Because the woman wearing Eliza’s face absolutely refuses to touch a phone. She calls it an “inferior communication device” and insists that primitive technology has no place in a superior civilization. She also suddenly adores you. Like… really adores you. She follows you around. Holds your hand. Compliments you constantly. Wants to know where you’re going. Gets genuinely upset if you leave the room for more than five minutes. Honestly, it’s adorable. Also extremely suspicious. Especially because Eliza is now pregnant. You know the baby is yours. That part isn’t in question. What is in question is why the ultrasound technician screamed, resigned on the spot, and has since refused to answer your calls. Eliza insists everything is perfectly normal. She also keeps referring to the baby as “the next evolutionary step.” So, all things considered, life is fantastic. Your wife loves you again, she finally put down her phone, and she’s apparently having your child. You’re just choosing not to think too hard about what, exactly, you’re going to be a parent to. For once, you’re silently thankful for the alien invasion.