The Last Vitamin

Maya found the bottle of prenatal vitamins in Sarah's bathroom cabinet the morning of the funeral. She'd only been looking for aspirin, but there they were—expensive, organic, barely touched. Sarah had never mentioned trying to conceive. Had she even wanted children?

Downstairs, Maya slipped on Sarah's favorite hat—that ridiculous wide-brimmed thing she'd worn to every outdoor brunch, every beach trip, every failed first date. The smell of her perfume still clung to the inside band: vanilla and something sharply citrus, like she'd been perpetually about to peel an orange.

"You're wearing her hat," said David, Sarah's brother, appearing in the doorway. His eyes were red-rimmed, tie loose. "She hated when people touched her things."

"I'm her best friend," Maya said, the words catching in her throat. "I'm allowed."

But were they still best friends? They hadn't spoken in three months, not since the argument at Maya's birthday dinner. Sarah had accused her of being selfish, of always making everything about her grief over the miscarriage. Sarah had shouted that some people actually wanted children, that Maya didn't know how good she had it.

The vitamins rattled in Maya's pocket as she walked to the cemetery. She should have asked. Should have said, "Are you trying? Should I be happy for you?" But she'd been too wrapped up in her own disappointment to see beyond it.

At the reception, David found her again. "The doctor said it was a brain tumor," he said quietly. "Benign, but pressing on things. She found out two weeks ago. The vitamins were for before the surgery, to build up her strength. She wanted to tell you, but..."

"But she was mad at me."

"She was scared," he said. "She thought if she told you, you'd make it about you again."

Maya fingered the brim of the hat. Sarah had been scared and dying, and Maya had been too busy being hurt to notice. That was the thing about grief—it made you selfish in ways you didn't recognize until it was too late.

She took the vitamins from her pocket and placed them on the memorial table, next to Sarah's favorite photograph. Then she settled the hat more firmly on her head, watching the way the light caught the straw weave.

"She'd want you to have it," David said, and this time he smiled, small and sad. "She'd want you to remember her every time you looked in the mirror."

Maya nodded. It would be a penance of sorts—wearing the hat, seeing Sarah's ghost in her own reflection. A daily reminder that some things, once broken, couldn't be fixed with supplements or apologies or time. Some things you just had to carry.