The Last Green Thing

Maya stood in her father's kitchen at 2 AM, staring at the wilted spinach in the colander. He'd been dead for three weeks, yet here she was, still trying to feed him.

He'd died like a bull—massive, stubborn, impossible to redirect. Even pancreatic cancer couldn't make him apologize for fifty years of emotional negligence. His parting gift: a house full of vitamin supplements and unanswered questions.

Outside, lightning fractured the November sky, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the kitchen's stillness. She'd come to pack his things, but instead found herself cooking his favorite meal, as if completing this ritual might somehow complete *them*.

Garlic sizzling in olive oil. The familiar scent that had permeated every childhood memory, every rare attempt at connection. She tossed in the spinach, watched it collapse, green and surrendering, unlike her father who'd fought everything until his last breath.

Her phone buzzed—Daniel, calling from his business trip. She'd been ghosting him since the funeral. Another man who wanted more than she could give, who asked her to unpack her trauma like it was a simple suitcase, zip it closed when convenient.

She plated the food, sat at his scarred oak table. The first bite burned her tongue. Tears came suddenly, not for the father who'd left her hungry for affection, but for the daughter who'd spent half a lifetime trying to earn love she'd never received.

Another flash of lightning. The timer on her phone blinked—time to take her own vitamins. Doctor's orders. She swallowed them dry, thinking how strange it was, trying to extend a life she hadn't particularly enjoyed.

She scraped the untouched spinach into the garbage. Tomorrow she'd sell the house. Tomorrow she'd call Daniel. Tomorrow she'd stop trying to feed ghosts.

But tonight, she let herself sit in the dark, feeling lightning sketch her grief against the walls, eating nothing at all.