The Dog at the Door

Maria stood at the kitchen counter, rinsing spinach under cold water while her husband Mark sat at the table, his back to her. The water rushed over her hands, drowning the silence between them.

"She's not coming back," Mark said, not turning around.

The spinach leaves trembled in Maria's hands. Their daughter Emma had left three months ago after the fight about the abortion — the one Maria had supported, the one Mark couldn't forgive.

Outside, a dog barked. It had been coming to their door every night since Emma left, a stray with matted fur and sad eyes that reminded Maria of her daughter.

"I invited Sarah for dinner," Maria said, wringing out the spinach. "She's been worried about you."

Mark laughed bitterly. "Your friend? The one who convinced Emma to—"

"To make her own choice?" Maria turned, water dripping from her hands onto the floor. "She's my friend, Mark. She's the only one who's been honest with us through all of this."

The dog scratched at the door, whining now.

"You're letting it in again," Mark said.

Maria opened the door. The dog limped in, its fur wet from the rain, and curled beneath the table. Mark stared at it with something between hatred and recognition.

"You know why Emma left," Maria said softly, placing a salad bowl on the table. "She couldn't breathe in this house anymore. Neither can I."

She'd made the decision that morning, while Mark was at work. She'd found the apartment, the lawyer, the new job two towns over. The spinach salad was her last meal here.

"Eat your dinner," she said.

Mark looked at the dog, then at her, and for the first time in months, really saw her. "You're leaving."

"Yes," she said.

He nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes like bruise-colored light. The dog beneath the table sighed, settling into the warmth between them, waiting for whoever would remain.