The Water Line

Sarah stared at the vitamin supplements lined up on their bathroom counter—prenatal blends, folic acid, CoQ10—a graveyard of hope in amber bottles. Three years of trying. Three years of her cycle tracking app glowing with optimistic colors that never delivered.

Marcus was downstairs. She heard their cat, Barnaby, scratching at the back door. He'd been Marcus's companion when they'd met fifteen years ago, a scrappy tomcat who'd outlasted two apartments, one career change, and now this quiet erosion of their marriage. Not that Marcus would call it that. He just worked later, spent weekends at the office, came home smelling of other people's microwaved lunches.

The shower water hissed against the tile, drowning out everything she didn't want to feel. She leaned against the cool glass, letting it beat against her back until her skin went numb. Water had always been her element—swim team in college, surfing trips in their twenties. Now it was just something to hide in.

When she emerged, Marcus was in the kitchen with a dog.

Some mutt from the shelter—golden fur, soulful eyes, the kind of creature that demanded Optimism was everywhere now, it seemed. The aftermath, with wet towels across his lap. "I thought—we could start somewhere else. Not the way we planned, but—"

She looked at the dog, who had curled up beside Barnaby. The cat was grooming the puppy's ears with rough, maternal licks.

Sarah took the vitamins she'd been clutching and dropped them into the trash. Then she sat beside Marcus and buried her hands in the dog's fur, feeling the ridiculous, unearned warmth of something that chose to love them anyway.