The Pets We Left Behind

Maya stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, feeling like something that had shuffled out of a grave. Three years of mergers and acquisitions work had turned her into this thing—a corporate zombie, hollowed out by spreadsheets and emails that never stopped coming.

Her golden retriever, Buster, pressed his warm flank against her leg. The dog had been her ex-husband's idea, a We're a Family Now purchase that backfored when David left for a yoga instructor in Santa Fe. Buster was seven now, his muzzle silvering, still looking at Maya with that dopey unconditional love that made her want to scream sometimes.

On the counter, the cat—Shadow, named by a six-year-old Maya barely remembered—licked his paw elegantly. Shadow had belonged to their daughter, now away at college. The cat's indifference felt like a reproach. Everyone leaves, the cat seemed to say. Everyone except you.

Maya poured wine, thinking about the dead-eyed VP who'd cornered her that afternoon. 'You've got zombie eyes, Maya,' he'd said, like it was a compliment. 'Like nothing touches you anymore.' She'd almost slapped him. Instead she'd smiled, that dead smile she'd perfected over three years of divorce and corporate purgatory.

Buster whined, nudging her hand. His fur smelled of rain and old dog comfort. Shadow jumped down, rubbing against her ankles with a demanding purr.

'That's right,' Maya whispered to the empty kitchen. 'The only ones who stayed. The ones who can't speak English.'

She sank to the floor, surrounded by fur and warm bodies, and finally cried for the first time in six months. The dog licked the tears from her face. The cat pretended not to notice, but settled in her lap anyway.

Some tomorrows, she thought, you claw your way back to life. Some tomorrows, you just pet the animals and remember how to feel something.