The Pyramid of Unsent Letters

Margaret arranged the letters into a neat pyramid on her dining table, three decades of correspondence from Richard. The top tier contained his recent note—the one asking for a divorce after thirty-two years of marriage.

She'd taken her morning vitamin with a trembling hand, the pill catching in her throat like all the words she'd never said to him. Richard's departure had left her house cavernous, full of expensive things and empty of anything that mattered.

Their dog, a golden retriever named Barnaby, nuzzled her leg. Richard had wanted a dog to complete their image. Margaret had wanted one for something to love. Now Barnaby looked at her with soulful eyes, perhaps wondering why his pack had dissolved.

"You know," she said to the dog, "your father called me bull-headed this morning. Said I refused to see reason about the house sale."

It was true. She was refusing. Let him have his apartment in the city, his midlife crisis, his freedom. She'd keep this house with its memories, even the painful ones. She'd keep the pyramid of letters because they proved she'd been loved once, however imperfectly.

She wandered into the den where Richard's goldfish—now hers—swam in its illuminated tank. He'd bought it on impulse, claiming it would be calming. Instead, Margaret had spent nights watching its endless circling, recognizing something dangerously familiar in those confined, repetitive motions.

The fish approached the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent bubbles. She pressed her finger to the other side, and for a moment, they touched through the barrier between water and air.

"You're the lucky one," she whispered. "Nobody expects you to be anything other than a fish."

Barnaby whined from the doorway.

Margaret returned to the dining room and looked at the pyramid again. At the bottom were Richard's letters from courtship, full of passionate declarations and dreams. The middle held twenty years of birthday cards and anniversary notes, dutiful and increasingly brief. At the pinnacle, that final letter with its clinical explanation about growing apart and needing space.

She struck the pyramid with one sweeping motion. The letters cascaded across the table like snow, destroying the careful hierarchy of their life together.

"Bull-headed," she said again, testing the word. Then she smiled, really smiled, for the first time in weeks.

Some pyramids were meant to fall.