The Pool Where We Drowned

Maria stood by the pool's edge, clutching her father's old fedora. The hat smelled of tobacco and regret. Behind her, the dog—a golden retriever named Buster—whined, pressing his wet nose against her palm.

Seven years ago, this pool had been the site of her undoing. She'd been twenty-eight, married to Daniel for three years, hosting his boss's summer party. The boss's wife, Eleanor, had cornered Maria by the shallow end, a plate of creamed spinach balanced precariously on her knee.

"You know about the assistant, don't you?" Eleanor had asked, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "The one with the tattooed forearm?"

Maria had laughed, assuming it was office gossip. Then she'd seen them—Daniel and the assistant—emerging from the cabana, adjusting clothes, avoiding everyone's eyes. Her heart hadn't broken; it had calcified.

The spinach had been cold. The dog—Buster, back then, already old—had sensed something and pressed his nose into her hand just like he was doing now. The palm trees had whispered in the wind as if laughing at her ignorance.

Now, with her father gone and Daniel four years remarried to that same assistant, Maria returned to this house. The new owners had bought it at auction. They didn't know her story. They'd simply said, "Come say goodbye to the old place, if it matters."

Buster was gone too, of course. This was his grandson, same gentle eyes. Maria placed the hat on the pool's edge—a farewell gesture. It bobbed once, then sank.

Some things, she realized, were better left drowned.