The Morning's Heavy Glass

Martha stood at the kitchen counter, the morning light slicing through the window like accusation. She held her glass of water, watching the surface tremble with the slightest movement of her hand. Behind her, Barnaby—the golden retriever David had surprised her with five years ago, when he still believed in grand gestures—slept with the rhythmic, peaceful breathing of someone who'd never questioned whether love was enough.

She'd taken her vitamin D with breakfast for twelve years, ever since the doctor said her bones were showing the wear of too many hours hunched over briefs and depositions. Now she wondered if the pills had been preserving anything worth keeping.

Her eyes landed on David's hat—a crushed fedora he'd bought on that trip to Prague, wearing it with such theatrical flair until the night he'd left it on the bar and walked out of their marriage. She'd kept it. Why had she kept it?

The dog stirred, sensing something. Martha set down the water—condensation weeping down the glass—and pressed her palm flat against the cold granite. She was forty-three years old, successful by every metric she'd been taught to value, and suddenly she understood that drowning wasn't about water at all. It was about the slow accumulation of choices you never realized you were making until you couldn't remember how to swim to the surface.

Barnaby lifted his head, amber eyes full of that terrible, uncomplicated love that dogs give so freely to people who haven't earned it. He wagged his tail once, thumping against the cabinet door.

Martha swept David's hat into the trash. Then she poured another glass of water and called in sick to the firm. For the first time in twelve years, she didn't take her vitamin. Some things, she decided, should be allowed to break.