Division of Assets

The baseball sat on the mantle, still dusty from the last game we'd attended together. It was opening day, two years ago—back when we still believed in the possibility of things getting better, before the fertility treatments, before the silent dinners, before the apartment became a museum to our failures.

"We should divide the assets," Sarah had said that morning, her voice terrible in its calmness. "Like a business."

So we made lists. She took the cat because Buster had always been hers, just as I'd claimed the dog from day one. Now Buster sat yowling in his carrier by the door, while Copper—our golden retriever with the graying muzzle—pressed himself against my leg, sensing something wrong.

"The vitamins," I said, gesturing to the bathroom counter. The prenatal bottles stood there like accusation: three months' supply, barely touched. We'd stopped trying two months ago, but neither of us had the heart to throw them away. They were the most expensive thing we owned, in terms of hope per dollar.

Sarah picked up one bottle, weighing it in her palm. "You keep them. In case."

"In case what?"

She didn't answer.

The dog nudged my hand with his wet nose. I looked down at Copper, thinking how I'd have to explain this to him too—the sudden quiet, the half-empty closets, the way Sarah's scent was already fading from the pillowcases. Animals understood loss better than we did. They didn't need words.

"I'll pick Buster up next weekend," she said, shouldering her bag. "Unless you want visitation."

"No." My voice cracked. "He's yours."

She paused at the door, then turned back. "The baseball—your dad gave you that glove. You should keep it."

"I don't want it."

"Then sell it. Whatever. Just—" She broke off, and for the first time that morning, her calm cracked. "Just don't leave it sitting there like some kind of memorial."

After she left, I sat on the floor with Copper, both of us listening to the sudden emptiness. The vitamins sat on the counter. The baseball on the mantle. Somewhere across town, Buster was probably crying, not understanding why his world had shifted again.

I opened the prenatal bottle and shook one pill into my palm. Then another. I swallowed them dry, standing in the kitchen that was half mine, half hers, completely ours no longer.

The dog watched me, his tail thumping once, hope against habit.