The Last Vitamin

The golden retriever lay limp on the kitchen tile, breathing in shallow, wet gasps. Marcus stood over him, the empty orange bottle clutched in his hand like evidence.

"You gave him your vitamins?" Elena's voice cracked — not with anger, but with something far more dangerous: recognition.

"They were just fish oil. Vitamin D." Marcus's fingers trembled. "I thought — I thought maybe if he took what I take —"

"Jesus, Marcus. He's twelve. He has cancer."

The silence between them swelled, vast and oceanic. Outside, the padel court waited — they had a match at three, their weekly ritual, the thing that still made them feel like athletes, like a couple who moved through the world with purpose. Now the sun glared off the artificial turf, indifferent.

Elena dropped to her knees beside the dog, her hands stroking the familiar golden coat. "Barnaby," she whispered. The dog's tail gave a single, feeble thump.

"I ordered those vitamins," Marcus said, his voice distant. "I read about them in a journal. Bioavailability percentages. Absorption rates. I thought if I could optimize —"

"Optimize what?" Elena looked up, her eyes swimming. "A dying dog? A marriage that's been hollow for years?"

The truth hit the water then, spreading like oil. They'd been playing padel every Tuesday and Thursday for six years, tracking their vitamin intake, monitoring their sleep cycles, measuring everything that could be measured. Everything except the thing that mattered.

"I thought control was the same thing as love," Marcus said quietly.

Elena stood, her knees popping. She crossed to the sink, turned on the faucet, and watched the water rush over her hands. "We can't supplement this away," she said, and when she turned back, tears cut tracks through her foundation. "We can't optimize our way out of grief."