The mail slot clanged and when Frida entered the hall she saw the black envelope lying innocently on the pile of mail pooled beneath the door. Silver winter morning light shone through the windows on either side, like a stylized old film. Black envelope, white tile.
Frida was sitting on the hall bench. When did she sit? She was glad she had because her legs couldn’t hold her. Was it happening now? The notice in the black envelope was supposed to give something like a year’s warning, though she’d heard of people taking matters into their own hands. She was pretty sure that’s how Michael from down the street had done it. Left the envelope unopened on the kitchen counter and walked barefoot into Lake Michigan in mid-December. His wife and kids had moved away after that.
Her husband, however, was a card-carrying member of the Natural Death Society, against the whole idea of the envelope. Dragged their son, Kye, to canvas for anti-registry candidates or to demonstrations, carrying signs that read When We Go, No Need to Know! and Black Envelopes Are BLACKMAIL! Frida always made a point of staying home.
She should have received a notification on her phone that the envelope was coming. Wen must have managed to keep them off the digital notification list, always wrangling with various providers to opt them out, again, filling out the forms, making the calls. Of course, the insurance companies wanted, needed, that information. So did credit card companies, investment firms, healthcare providers. Most people wanted to know. But not Wen. Frida had stopped arguing. Now she just quietly kept putting their names back on the registry. It was the Cold War between them.
And she’d won.
She’d been nursing a bittersweet fantasy: Wen weeping at her graveside, grateful he’d been given forewarning so he could use their final months together to make up for the distance in their marriage. To be a better husband and father, love more bravely, more fiercely.
Had such fantasies hastened her envelope or delayed it? Probably neither. What did her dreams matter to an actuarial A.I., except in how they gave statistical context to her personal data? Her life was consumed, digested, and spit back out. Nothing now, but one long, black tongue.
She stood and the world tilted for a moment. The wait was over. Wen would be devastated. He would be furious.
She didn’t know whether to weep or feel vindicated.
She turned the mail over and over in her hands. Her temples throbbed. She’d missed her second cup of coffee, not to mention three virtual meetings and a conference call. She wasn’t sure if any of that mattered now.
There was a lot of mail, all end-of-life advertisements, from agencies who paid extra for early access to the digital list. She should know. Right on top was a flyer for a travel company she’d done a registry cost analysis for, striking just the right balance between solemn and enticing. Also: estate lawyers, investment schemes, even a digital afterlife brochure. Not that they had the money for something like that, even if she’d wanted it.
She didn’t know what she wanted.
The black envelope itself was singular. Light-weight. Wasn’t there a story about a scientist who had tried to weigh the human soul? The envelope should be heavier.
Especially, because it wasn’t addressed to her.
Wen came home full of manic energy. Frida was fiercely scrubbing dishes in the kitchen, the envelope tucked into the front pocket of her apron.
“You won’t believe it,” he said, breathless and bustling into the kitchen, loosening his scarf. “Brent died.”
“Oh Wen, I’m so sorry,” Frida said. She hoped she sounded sympathetic. She was trying to remember who Brent was and, honestly, trying to feel anything at all really.
“Yes, yes,” he said, getting tangled in his scarf. “But the brilliant thing is he never got an envelope at all! He had no idea it was coming! Car accident!”
“What about his wife? His kids?” Frida remembered Brent now. A member of the NDS, donkey-bray of a laugh. His wife’s name was Deborah. Petit, nice smile, worked with… animals? Something charming. They had two girls.
“They weren’t in the car. They’re fine,” Wen said, with a wave of his hand.
“No, they’re not,” Frida said, vehemently. Wen froze. “They’re not fine. Her husband, their father, is dead.”
“You’re right, of course you’re right,” Wen said. He placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezed, then let go. “But at least they weren’t preyed on by companies trying to steal their final time together. They didn’t have to sit with the knowledge that he was going to die and forget to just live. He got to live, all the way up to the end.”
“Wouldn’t it have made each moment even more meaningful, knowing it was limited?” Frida asked. She felt immensely tired. “Wouldn’t they have fought less, paid attention more. I don’t know, flown to Honolulu?”
“Brent hated to fly.”
“That’s not the point, Wen,” Frida says. She tackled a cutting board with her scrub brush. “The point of the registry is that we aren’t taken by surprise. That we can prepare. Be prepared.”
Wen went quiet. She could sense him watching her and dared a glance over her shoulder. He sat at the kitchen table, looking around, as if for the first time.
“You’ve been cooking?” he said, cautiously.
“I cook sometimes.” When she was depressed or anxious. But they both knew that. She dropped the board noisily into the drying rack.
Wen got up and began poking around the kitchen. He lifted the lid of the steamer basket.
“You made char siu bao,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “When did you have the time?”
“I wasn’t feeling well,” she said. “I took the afternoon off. I had some of your mother’s char siu in the freezer.”
Wen dug a pair of chopsticks out of the utensil drawer, then pulled a plush pork bun from the steamer.
“What Deborah, what Brent’s wife, is going through, it must be awful. And what if it had been one of her kids.” Frida fought against the hitch in her voice. “That she could have known and chose not to…”
“That’s what Brent wanted. That’s what they both wanted,” Wen said, “not to be burdened by expectation or hounded into the grave.” He looked at the perfect bun, rather than at her. “Not to mention, minors aren’t registered.”
“I think we should do more, as a family,” Frida blurted out. “Cook together. Attend concerts. Go to the beach. When’s the last time we went to the beach?”
“It’s January.”
“Then we’ll travel,” she said, putting her hand over his on the counter. “Somewhere warm.”
“Like you think Brent should have?” Wen said. He slid his hand away from hers. She couldn’t answer.
Wen dropped the steamed bun back into the basket and sighed.
“Wen…” Frida began.
“Don’t,” he said. “I don’t want to know.”
“Please,” Frida said. “I can’t stand the idea of –”
“What, dying?” he said, turning on her. “Then let’s dump all our money into an A.I. scrape of our personalities, let those algorithms “live” on until the trust for our server storage runs out. Or invest in those life-lengthening drugs they promise will work any day now.”
“No, it’s not—”
“You think everyone should have the right to know. You wanted to know,” Wen said, “and now you do. I hope it brings you comfort.”
“Wen, listen, it’s—” Frida began, just as the kitchen door swung open with a bang.
“Hey Mom, Dad,” Kye said, entering with a swirl of snow. He dropped his backpack and guitar case on the floor and slipped his headphones down around his neck. Snowflakes clung to his jet-black hair. “Band practice ran long. What smells so good?”
Frida looked down into the dirty swirl of the sink. She could hardly see it, it blurred so. She tried to crumple the black envelope in her pocket into a meaningless ball, but the paper was too stiff and cut at her palms.
“I made your favorite, sweetheart,” she said, finally, to her son.
Kye went to the stove and stuck his head into the steamer basket. “Pork buns?!” His mouth quickly filled with dough and laughter. “You haven’t made these in forever. Since, like, I got to vote in that special Senate race? Even though Stevenson didn’t win.” He scowled.
Then his eyes lit up. “Wait, did I get in early decision to Northwestern? I didn’t get a notification. Did you?” He pulled out his phone and started scrolling.
The color had drained from Wen’s face as he stared at Kye, before he looked to Frida. They stood like that, across from each other, the winter cold radiating off their only son, the kitchen clock ticking. Frida looked away first, the unopened envelope a dagger in her hands.
I am a 2023 graduate of Viable Paradise and a writing/ book marketing instructor at Grub Street Inc. and the (Boston) Metrowest Writers Guild, among others. My writing can be found in Strange Horizons, The Rumpus, Haven Spec, Trollbreath Magazine, New Year, New You: A Speculative Anthology of Reinvention, and most recently in the UK horror mag, The Ghastling: Book 23. You can more information about me and my work at pottern.com
Published 8/7/26