Storm Court

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen table next to the cat's water bowl. Barnaby — our golden retriever — pressed his wet nose against my thigh, sensing something was wrong even before I did.

"You're leaving?" I asked, though Sarah's packed duffel bag already answered.

"Padel tournament in Barcelona," she said, not meeting my eyes. "Marlena needs a partner."

Marlena. The name tasted like bile. The woman Sarah had spent every Friday night with for six months while I stayed home with the dog and cat, convincing myself they were just perfecting their backhand drives.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open — a violent stroke that illuminated the cracks in our foundation we'd both pretended weren't there. The cat, Luna, scrambled under the sofa.

"You're sleeping with her."

Sarah's silence was its own confession.

"We met through padel," she finally said, like that explained anything. "It just... happened."

Just happened. As if marriage were a weather event, something that simply occurred rather than something we built together through seven years of Sunday mornings and tax returns and choosing paint colors we both hated.

I looked at Barnaby, who'd been a wedding gift from her parents. He thumped his tail against the linoleum, still waiting for someone to throw his tennis ball.

"Who gets the dog?" I asked, my voice flat.

Sarah looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the guilt she'd been hiding behind those early morning "practice sessions."

"You should keep him," she said quietly. "He's always loved you more."

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The storm had finally broken.

"Go to Barcelona," I said. "Just go."

And she did.

That night, I sat in the dark with Barnaby's head on my foot and Luna eventually emerging from under the sofa to curl against my side. The storm raged for hours, but inside, everything had gone terribly, devastatingly quiet.