The Breaking Point

The padel court echoed with the sharp *thwack* of racquet against ball, a rhythm that had become the soundtrack to our Thursday evenings for three years. Mark's back glistened with sweat as he returned my serve, his competitive grin more familiar than the taste of my own name.

"Your form's off," he called out, just as he had during our first match, during our wedding reception toast, during every miscarriage we'd suffered in private silence. Mark was always correcting—always improving—never just witnessing.

My phone buzzed in my bag, vibrating against the concrete bench where I'd left it. One buzz. Then another. A pattern I'd learned to recognize without seeing the screen.

"Game point," Mark said, bouncing the ball, his orange polo shirt bright against the fading light. That shirt—his favorite—should have been a warning. Orange, the color of caution. The color of things that burn out too fast.

I walked to the sideline and unlocked my iPhone. Three messages from Sarah, the same number of years we'd been trying to conceive. The photos weren't explicit—just Mark's hand on someone's knee at a café, his familiar correction of another woman's form. But it was enough. The pattern emerged: Thursday evenings weren't always padel. Sometimes they were "late meetings." Sometimes they were "drinks with clients."

"You coming?" Mark asked, ball in hand.

I looked at him—really looked—at the man I'd spent seven years trying to please, trying to be enough for. The orange shirt. The confident stance. The slight impatience in his eyes that I'd mistaken for passion.

"Actually," I said, surprised by the calm in my voice. "I think I'm done."

"Done? We're at deuce."

"No, Mark. Done."

I gathered my things, left him standing there in his orange shirt with his ball and his expectations, vibrating with a sudden, terrible clarity. Some matches, I realized walking to my car, you don't finish. You simply stop playing.