The Goldfish Bowl Protocol

The funeral home smelled like lemon polish and suppressed grief. Nathan stood by the window, his thumb hovering over his iphone. Three unread messages from Sarah. Are you coming home? The kids are asking. We need to talk.

He watched his father's cat—a morbidly orange tabby named Chairman Meow—pace around the casket. Dad had bought the cat three months after Mom died, along with a ridiculous fishing hat he'd wear to the grocery store. "Keeps the sun out of my eyes," he'd say, winking, though Nathan suspected he just liked the absurdity of it.

"You still playing?" Uncle Jerry's voice cut through. He held out a mitt—Dad's old baseball glove from the warehouse leagues. "Found it in his closet. Still has the stain from that championship game. '87."

Nathan took it. The leather was cracked, the pocket perfectly worn. He remembered Dad at every game, screaming himself hoarse, even when Nathan sat on the bench for five innings straight. The old man never missed a practice, never missed a moment, until the summer Nathan turned seventeen and everything changed.

"He loved you," Jerry said. "Even when—"

"He had a funny way of showing it."

"He was proud, Nathan. That's not the same thing."

On the mantel, Dad's goldfish bowl caught the light. A single fantail—Goldie, unimaginatively—swam in endless circles. Nathan had given it to him for Father's Day five years ago, a peace offering after yet another failed attempt at reconciliation. Five years of awkward monthly visits, five years of "how's work" and "that's nice."

"We're putting it in the will," Jerry said, following his gaze. "The house. He never sold it. Said you might want it someday."

Nathan's iphone buzzed again. Sarah. The divorce papers would arrive Monday. He looked at the cat, now sleeping on Dad's favorite chair. The fishing hat hung on the rack. The goldfish, oblivious, continued its circuits.

"He was stubborn," Nathan said.

"That's the family curse."

"No." Nathan tucked the baseball glove under his arm. "The curse is thinking we have time to fix things."

He walked out into the afternoon heat, iphone finally silent in his pocket. Chairman Meow followed him to the door, then turned back, curling onto the empty chair as if waiting for someone who wasn't coming home.