Spinach and Silence

The morning I left Marcus, he was still asleep. I packed my clothes while he dreamed, the bull in his china shop personality finally silenced by unconsciousness. He wouldn't understand why I was leaving. He never understood anything that wasn't about him.

Three months later, I'm learning to breathe again. My sister Emma got me into padel—she said I needed something physical, something that would make me sweat for the right reasons. She was right. There's something primal about smashing that ball against the glass wall, something cathartic in the rhythmic thud-thud-thud that echoes through the court. My opponents underestimate me. I'm not the fastest, not the strongest, but I've learned to be relentless.

"You play like you're running from something," Emma told me yesterday, wiping sweat from her forehead.

I didn't answer. Some things don't need saying.

Marcus texted me last week. *I made that spinach dish you loved. Remember when we used to cook together?*

I remember. I remember how he'd criticize my technique, how he'd suggest—always suggest, never ask—that I let him take over. How he'd make me feel small in my own kitchen. How he'd make me feel small everywhere.

Tonight, I'm making spinach for myself. Fresh leaves, garlic, good olive oil. The apartment is quiet, but it's not lonely. It's peaceful. There's no one here to tell me I'm doing it wrong. No one to tell me I should be doing something else, something better.

The spinach wilts in the pan, vibrant green surrendering to heat. I pour a glass of wine and lean against the counter, watching steam curl toward the ceiling. Tomorrow I have a padel match at noon. Emma says I'm getting good. She says I have fire now.

I eat standing up, the way Marcus always hated. The spinach is perfect—tender, seasoned exactly how I like it. For the first time in years, everything tastes like mine.