The Last Inning

Margaret watched the steam rise from her takeout container—spinach, limp and overcooked, much like she felt most days. Another dinner alone while David worked late again. He'd probably text at midnight, some vague apology about the quarterly review, and she'd forgive him because that's what you did after seventeen years.

She took a bite, bitter and cold, and suddenly she was eight years old again, standing in the backyard with her father. He'd pitched a baseball—real, honest leather and stitching—and she'd swung with everything she had, missed, spun around, fallen into the vegetable garden. He'd laughed, pulled her up, told her even the greats struck out. Then he'd plucked a spinach leaf from her hair, raw and earthy, and they'd eaten them right there in the dirt, conspirators against her mother's kitchen rules.

That was the year before the accident. Before her mother started drinking herself to sleep. Before her father's laugh became something she only heard in dreams.

Now David called her his 'corporate zombie'—joking, affectionate, cruel in its precision. She moved through meetings and dinner parties and charitable galas, smiling, nodding, completely hollowed out. Sometimes she caught her reflection in office windows and didn't recognize the woman staring back.

The spinach soured in her mouth. She pushed the container away, reached for her phone, and instead of waiting for David's text, she typed something else entirely.

Her sister answered on the third ring. They hadn't spoken in two years—not since Margaret chose David's promotion over their father's funeral. 'I was thinking about the garden,' Margaret said, and something inside her chest cracked open, finally, after so long. 'Remember how we used to—'

'Yes,' her sister said. 'I remember.'

Outside, the streetlights flickered on like stadium floods. For the first time in seventeen years, Margaret felt like she might actually step up to the plate again.