On Saturday morning, as I change the sheets, I find a single birch leaf. It lies on my husband’s side of the bed. The size of my pinkie fingernail with delicate serrations on the edges, it is dried, light brown, crispy. I put it on my tongue, crunching it between my teeth before swallowing it.

I watch my husband carefully that week. I watch him as we take turns cooking dinner each night, as I complain about my work deadlines over a glass of wine, and as he wrangles our kids into the bath then puts them to bed. Our Sunday morning lovemaking feels the same as it has for the past seven years. So I relax, laugh at my silliness. Settle back into the routine of our lives. But then, a few weeks later, making the bed one morning before work, I find another leaf. As I plump my husband’s pillow, there it is, bright and shiny on the white sheets. The same shape and pattern, although this one is a vibrant green. I lift it into my palm and with my index finger trace the smooth outer layer, then flip it over to feel the soft pale underside.

My husband works at home twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday. He picks up the kids from school on those afternoons so I can work late at the office. On the following Tuesday I complain of a migraine and leave the office at noon. I drive straight home, and cresting the small hill before our house I think I see a glint of green dart past our bedroom window. Bursting into the house I look around wildly, but my husband is only standing at the kitchen bench, a cup of tea in his hand.

He quirks his eyebrows. “Why are you home early, love?”

His laptop is open on the kitchen table, a spreadsheet visible on the glowing screen. I mutter something about a headache and lurch towards our bedroom, pausing at the doorway. Our bed is still neatly made, just as I had left it this morning. The only difference is our bedroom windows. They are all wide open, letting in the cool spring air.

It is after dinner, as we clear the dishes away, that I notice it. A thin scratch on his neck.

“What happened to your neck?” I ask, reaching up to touch the line.

 “Oh, nothing much, trying to get one of the kid’s balls out of the hedge.” He shrugs, sliding away from me towards the kitchen sink.

I watch him for a moment, but he just continues putting the dishes in the dishwasher, humming gently to himself.

“I’ll start running a bath for the kids,” I say, heading down the hall. Once I am out of his sight I dart back, peering at him from the corner.

He has his hand on his neck and is gazing out our big windows to the trees at the boundary of our property.

We moved here ten years ago, escaping the city for a bit of country life. A good place to have a family, we told everyone. A few acres to have some chickens, raise some sheep. Still an easy commute for me, and my husband could work from home. The previous owner had been exuberant in their plantings, and the bottom edge of our property is filled with young birches. I was worried they would grow up and block our view, and suggested cutting them down, but my husband had protested.

 “They are so beautiful,” he said, “look how they dance in the wind.”

And so they remained, growing more each year, their graceful branches swaying and their supple trunks filling out. Every year or two I would make noise about thinning them, but my husband always objected. In the evening, he would often go down to the birches, and I would watch him from the kitchen window. He stood amongst them, a hand stroking the slippery bark. Once I tried to join him, but when he felt my hand on his shoulder he startled, turning red-faced away from me. I felt a twinge of jealousy.

On Thursday morning, I kiss my husband goodbye and leave the house as normal. I text him at lunch to let him know I will be working late. After work, I go straight to the hardware store. Cruising the aisles, I look at all the sharp implements for cutting wood. Chainsaws, skill saws, hatchets, axes, handsaws. I caress the different blades, imagining them sinking into soft bark. Finally, I settle on a hatchet, red handle and silver blade. It is balanced in my hand.

I drive the long way home, hatchet on the passenger seat. Parking by our neighbours’ old barn, I sneak through their paddock, using the torch on my phone to navigate the uneven ground. The sheep stare glassily at me in the light, shuffling away when I come too close. At the end of the paddock is the grove of birches on our property boundary. I climb the fence and stand in front of the trees. Turning off my phone torch, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. A half-moon glints down, making the birch trunks glow white. The night is still and windless, yet the trees shake and move. I can almost see the lean limbs, smooth and supple, the high breasts, and shapely thighs. Long pale throats and flowing hair. As I approach, they all shake more violently, branches thrashing high above me.

When the hatchet bites into the soft trunk of the first tree, it shudders. With each subsequent chop, the branches’ movement slows, until finally, on my seventh blow, the tree falls to the ground. I move quickly to the next one and the next. The pile of trees grows behind me, branches limp, green leaves litter the ground. Walking toward the last tree, I pause to stare at it. It is taller than the others, trunk smooth and limbs graceful. Its branches reach for me. They scratch my face and tangle in my hair. Lunging towards its trunk, I raise my hatchet and strike. The blade barely cuts through the bark. The tree sways more frantically. Under my feet I can feel its roots writhing, pushing against the soles of my shoes. Desperately I swing again and the hatchet bites deep. As I pull out the blade, blood pours down the trunk, soaking the ground. I chop steadily now and the branches slow, weakening. With a final stroke, I sever the trunk. The tree falls heavily to the ground. Only a stump remains, dark blood oozing down the sides. I dip my finger in the blood and put it in my mouth. It tastes salty, of tears and sweat and semen.

Grabbing one of the branches, the twigs scrape my wrist as I turn towards the house. Up on the hill, my home stands. Lights glow in the windows. Hefting the axe over my shoulder, I begin to drag her remains up the hill.