The Last Vitamin

Elena stood in the bathroom of her empty house, staring at the orange bottle on the counter. The vitamin D supplement—his vitamin D supplement—still stood there like a stubborn sentinel, three months after Marcus died. She should have thrown it out. Should have cleared the bathroom of all evidence: his razor, his faded blue toothbrush, the hat rack where his fedora still waited for a head that would never wear it again.

But she couldn't. Not yet.

Her palm pressed against the cold mirror, leaving a fogged imprint that vanished as quickly as it appeared. That's what grief felt like—something you could see for a moment, something that felt substantial, but then it was gone, leaving you questioning whether it had ever been real at all.

The doorbell rang.

Elena's sister Sarah stood on the porch with a Tupperware container. "I made spanakopita," she said, pushing past Elena into the hallway. "You're not eating. I can tell. Your mother's voice keeps appearing in my head telling me to check on you, and it's annoying, so here I am."

"I'm eating," Elena lied.

"Bullshit. When was the last time you had a green vegetable?"

Elena almost laughed. "Marcus used to hide spinach in my smoothies. Said I wouldn't notice." She hadn't. Not until after the funeral, when she'd tried to recreate his recipes and everything tasted wrong.

Sarah set the container on the kitchen counter and turned to face her sister. "You know what he told me once? He said you made him believe in second chances."

"He said that?"

"At your fifth anniversary party. Drunk off his ass, but he meant it."

Elena's throat tightened. She'd spent weeks convinced Marcus had died regretting their marriage. Convinced that his last coherent thought was that he should have left her years ago, back when they'd first started drifting apart. She'd built narratives in her head, midnight stories about how he'd stayed out of obligation, how he'd secretly resented her for her career, for her inability to have children, for the thousand ways she'd failed to be the wife he deserved.

"He wore that ridiculous hat to our wedding," Elena whispered. "Remember?"

"The fedora? God, yes. You hated it."

"I loved it. I told him I hated it because I was embarrassed by how much I loved that he was confident enough to wear a fedora in 2024."

Sarah reached out and took Elena's hand, palm to palm, their fingers lacing together in a gesture that hadn't changed since they were children. "You're going to survive this, El. But you have to actually live it first."

Elena looked at her sister—really looked at her—and saw the fear behind the tough love. Sarah was terrified too. They all were. Death was contagious like that.

"Stay for dinner," Elena said. "Help me eat the spinach before it goes bad."

And for the first time in ninety days, Elena felt something besides the hollow ache of absence. She felt the faint, tentative warmth of possibility.