The Vitamin Cabinet

Margaret stood before the open medicine cabinet, staring at the orange plastic bottle. Another vitamin supplement promised to fix what was broken inside her. At forty-two, she'd accumulated more bottles than memories, each one a tiny admission that her body was slowly betraying her.

The cat wound around her ankles, screaming for breakfast. Margaret looked down at the calico she'd inherited from Sarah—her friend, her former best friend, the woman who'd moved to Portland three months ago with nothing but a suitcase and a forwarded address. The cat had chosen Margaret over Sarah, which seemed fitting. The cat always knew.

"You're lucky," Margaret whispered, filling the bowl. "You don't have to decide whether to call her."

Her phone sat on the counter, silent and judgmental. Sarah had sent a text last week: *Portland is good. I found a farm share.* Attached was a photo of a CSA box overflowing with kale, radishes, and enormous bunches of spinach. Margaret had stared at that photo for twenty minutes, wondering what it meant—was this an olive branch? A brag? A casual update from someone who no longer needed her?

They'd fought about something stupid. Margaret couldn't even remember what. Only that she'd been right, and she'd made sure Sarah knew it, and Sarah had packed her things and left.

Now the apartment was too quiet. Margaret had adopted a dog from the shelter two weeks ago—a nervous terrier mix named Walter who'd clearly been someone else's baby before ending up in that cold cement room. Walter slept at the foot of her bed, twitching his paws at dreamed-up rabbits. He was grateful, which she appreciated, but he wasn't Sarah. He couldn't finish her sentences or remind her of who she used to be.

Margaret's hand hovered over her phone. She could text back. *The spinach looks good.* Or *I miss you.* Or *I was wrong.*

Instead, she dry-swallowed another vitamin—D3 this time, for mood, though God knew it wasn't working—and closed the cabinet door. The cat screamed again. The dog stirred in his bed. And somewhere in Portland, Sarah was probably making herself a salad, maybe thinking about Margaret, maybe not.

Margaret's finger hovered over the screen. Then she typed: *Send recipe.*