Menagerie of the Heart

The clock ticked against the wall like a judgment. Sarah watched her husband's lawyer approach the settlement agreement with the predatory grace of a cat who'd been waiting too long for a canary.

"Your client's being unreasonable," David said, not looking at her. He'd mastered the art of speaking through her, as if she'd become transparent after twenty years.

Sarah's attorney, Marcus, cleared his throat. "We're just asking for what's fair."

"Fair." The word hung in the air, suspended with the dust motes. Sarah thought about all the times David had accused her of being unfair when she'd asked for help with the children, when she'd wanted to pursue her art, when she'd dared to have needs that weren't an extension of his own.

The mediator intervened—a weary woman named Carol who'd probably seen more marriages die than most priests had wed. "Let's focus on the assets."

Assets. As if a life together could be tallied on a spreadsheet, divided like spoils after a bear had finished its rampage through a campsite. Sarah wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, but she'd forgotten how to laugh somewhere around year seven, when the baby wouldn't sleep and David started staying late at the office.

"What about the dog?" David asked, finally looking at her.

Barnaby. The golden retriever they'd adopted during that brief, hopeful period before they'd realized infertility treatments weren't going to work. The dog who'd curled around Sarah's body when she miscarried in the bathroom at 3 AM, who'd slept beside her through the weeks of recovery.

"You can't even take care of yourself," Sarah said quietly. "You're barely home."

"I need him. He's family."

Family. The word twisted in her chest like a knife she'd swallowed years ago. Sarah stood up, her legs trembling beneath her skirt. She looked at David—really looked at him—and saw the man she'd loved, the man who'd promised forever in a backyard wedding with fairy lights and hope, the man who'd somehow become a stranger who shared her bed.

"Take him," she said, surprising herself. "Take the house, the retirement fund, the goddamn wedding album. Just sign the papers."

David blinked. The cat-lawyer froze. Even the mediator looked up from her paperwork.

"Sarah—" Marcus started, but she waved him off.

"I'm done being reasonable. I'm done being fair." She walked to the door, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown. "I'll send you my new address. Don't make me come back here."

Outside, the city stretched before her—gray and magnificent and terrifying. Sarah breathed in air that tasted of rain and exhaust and possibility. For the first time in forever, she wasn't anyone's wife, anyone's burden, anyone's obligation.

She was just herself, waiting to see what kind of animal she'd become next.