The Lightning We Missed

Margaret left the **vitamin** supplements on the kitchen counter every morning, a neat row of orange bottles that mocked me with their promise of longevity. She'd been doing it for thirty-two years, ever since the doctor told her my cholesterol was 'concerning for a man my age.' Now the bottles sat there gathering dust, and I couldn't remember if I'd taken one today or yesterday. The days blurred together in the aftermath of the funeral.

I stood by the pool where she'd taught our grandchildren to **swim**, the water glass-still under the gray October sky. The neighborhood was quiet—too quiet. The silence pressed against my eardrums like deep water.

'They're going to sell the company,' my son had told me over dinner last night, not meeting my eyes. 'The corporate **bull**—they don't care about legacy. They care about quarterly returns.' I'd built that logistics firm from nothing, working eighty-hour weeks while Margaret raised our three children. I thought I was building something lasting. Instead, I'd just been building something sellable.

The first drop of rain hit the pool's surface, sending ripples across the mirror. Then came the thunder, a low rumble that vibrated in my chest. I remembered the night we met, caught in a thunderstorm outside that dive bar in Chicago. **Lightning** had illuminated her face in flashes—wild eyes, damp hair, that laugh that made me want to be better than I was. She'd said, 'Life's short, honey. Don't spend it chasing things that won't remember you.'

I had spent it chasing them anyway.

The storm broke properly now, rain flattening my hair against my skull, and I stood there wondering when exactly I'd decided that success was more important than being present. The grandchildren would visit next weekend. I could teach them to swim, properly this time. Not from the deck with a phone in my hand, but in the water with them, rain or shine.

I went inside and swallowed a vitamin with a glass of water. Tomorrow, I'd call my son and tell him not to sell. But right now, I needed to figure out who I was without her—and who I might still become.