The Last Vitamin

Margaret stood in her kitchen at 6 AM, the fluorescent light flickering like a dying heartbeat. She placed the amber pill bottle on the counter—one vitamin D capsule, her doctor's orders. Another layer in the pyramid of small concessions she'd made since Arthur died.

The spinach salad she prepared every night sat in the fridge, wilted and forgotten again. Arthur had loved spinach. He'd joke about Popeye while they cooked together on Sunday evenings, his arms around her waist as she chopped. Now the vegetable just reminded her of everything she couldn't stomach anymore.

She ran the tap, watching the water cascade into her glass. Arthur had been the one who insisted on filtered water, who installed the fancy system under the sink, who left those sticky notes: CHANGE FILTER, OCT 15. The note was still there, yellowed, six months overdue.

The realization hit her with gentle violence: she was still living inside his systems, his routines, his meticulous care. She was merely maintaining the structure he'd built, like a caretaker dusting a pyramid that tourists no longer visited.

Margaret turned off the water. The glass sat full on the counter.

She opened the trash bin and dropped in the vitamin bottle. Then the spinach. Then she pulled the yellowed note from the cabinet and crumpled it.

At the grocery store that afternoon, she bought frozen pizza and bottled water. The clerk asked if she needed help with her bags, and she almost said no—Arthur had always insisted on carrying them—but instead she smiled, accepted the help, and felt something fragile and new beginning to grow.