The Burden We Bear

Maggie stood in her father's garden, her boots sinking into the rich, dark earth. The spinach seeds she'd planted last week had finally sprouted—tiny green fists pushing through the soil, defiant and fragile. Her father had grown spinach here every spring until his hands shook too much to hold a trowel. Now she carried the burden of his legacy, the weight of unspoken words between them heavier than any taxidermied bear he'd hunted in his youth.

The grizzly still stood in the den, glass eyes watching her whenever she visited. Her mother had called it "the bear" with a strange reverence, as if stuffing her husband's greatest conquest could preserve the man himself. But Maggie knew better. The bear was just another thing he'd conquered—like her mother's dreams, like Maggie's own desire to study art, like everything wild he'd domesticated into submission.

A calico cat appeared at the garden fence, watching her with curious yellow eyes. It belonged to the neighbor who'd died in February, but now it roamed freely, unmoored. Maggie tossed it a piece of spinach leaf. The cat sniffed it and walked away.

"Wise choice," Maggie muttered. "Who wants to be healthy anyway?"

Her phone buzzed—another email from the lawyer about the estate. Everyone wanted something. Even her father's death had become a transaction. She thought about quitting her job at the firm, where she spent twelve hours a day helping corporations bear their tax burdens. The irony wasn't lost on her.

The cat returned, this time with a dead mouse in its mouth. It dropped the offering at her feet and looked up expectantly. Maggie felt something crack open inside her chest.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

She pulled up the remaining spinach plants—every last one of them. Then she dug up the soil deeper, planting catnip and catmint instead. The bear inside the house could keep its watch. The garden would grow something wild now.