The Things We Keep

Emma watched him from the kitchen window, the glass cool against her forehead. Marcus was on the padel court again, his movements more fluid than she'd seen in years. The sport had become his religion these past six months—since the promotion, since the distance between them had grown measurable in feet rather than feelings. His gray hair caught the sunlight as he pivoted, sweat staining the back of his shirt. She remembered when she used to run her fingers through those strands, darker then, when they would lie in bed on Sunday mornings and he'd let her play with his hair until they both fell asleep again.

The cat, Barnaby, wound around her ankles, meowing insistently. He was Marcus's cat, really—a rescue from that bleak winter after his mother died. Barnaby had been the one thing that could make Marcus cry in those days, the only living thing he'd let himself need. Now the cat slept on Marcus's pillow every night, a warm presence where Emma used to be.

"You're staring again," she whispered to the cat, scooping him up. His purr vibrated against her chest.

She'd booked the appointment for yesterday. The doctor had called it "early intervention," said she had options, said thirty-seven wasn't too young to start thinking about these things. But she'd canceled. Couldn't bring herself to sit in a sterile room and discuss her hair—what she was losing, what she might choose to keep—while Marcus was out there, living some version of life that didn't seem to include her anymore.

The front door opened. Marcus's footsteps, the thud of his padel bag hitting the floor.

"Em? You here?"

She set Barnaby down carefully. Turned toward the hallway where her husband stood, flushed and alive in a way she hadn't felt in months. His eyes found hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw it—recognition, want, the same ache that lived in her chest.

"I was thinking," he said, crossing the room. "We could sell the padel gear. Take that trip to Japan we kept talking about. Before—"

"Before what?"

"Before we forget who we were. Before all this." He gestured vaguely at their beautiful, empty life. His hand moved to her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone, and Emma realized she wasn't the only one who'd been watching from windows, counting the things they stood to lose.

"Your hair," she said. "I noticed you stopped coloring it."

"Yeah." He smiled, tired and genuine. "Figured I should let you see me. All of me."

Barnaby meowed from between them, and they laughed—really laughed—for the first time in longer than either could remember.