The Last Round

Margaret stood at the edge of the padel court, her knees trembling slightly. At seventy-three, she had promised herself she would try one new thing each month. This month's adventure had been her granddaughter Sofia's idea. 'Nana, you'll love it! It's like tennis but easier!' Sofia had insisted, her eyes bright with that particular enthusiasm only the young possess. The same enthusiasm Margaret's daughter had once brought to her **padel** lessons, before university, before career, before the quiet house Margaret now kept.

The game began. Margaret's partner—Franco, a widower of eight months with kind eyes and reluctance to smile—moved with surprising grace. 'You're stubborn as a **bull**, Margaret,' he laughed when she insisted on returning a serve that had clearly gone wide. 'My father always said that about me,' she replied, surprising herself with the memory. The words came unbidden: her mother's voice, warm with exasperation. 'That girl's got the **bull** in her, same as her grandfather.'

After the match, they sat on the bench watching others play. 'I feel like a **zombie** some mornings,' Franco admitted suddenly, staring at his water bottle. 'Just going through the motions without her.' Margaret nodded. She understood that particular grief—not the walking dead kind, but the quieter version, where you continue living because not to seems selfish, yet everything essential has already departed.

'Still,' Margaret said, gesturing at Sofia, who waved from across the court, 'they keep us needing to show up, don't they?' Franco smiled then—a real one. 'Your grandmother was stubborn as a **bull** too,' Sofia called out, trotting over. 'That's what you said, Nana!'

Margaret laughed, the sound surprising her with its lightness. 'I suppose I did.' The Spanish sun warmed her face. In that moment, the **zombie** feeling receded, replaced by something else—not happiness exactly, but purpose, continuity, the quiet understanding that as long as someone remembers your stubbornness, your love, your particular way of being human, you haven't really left.

'Same time next week?' Franco asked, standing up with a groan. Margaret nodded. 'I'll be here. Unless I'm too busy being a **zombie**.' He laughed, and she found herself smiling too. Some bonds, she realized, are worth waking up for.