The Weight of Empty Spaces

Margot stood at the edge of the padel court, her racquet hanging loose at her side. The morning sun sliced through the chain-link fence, casting shadows that looked like prison bars across the synthetic turf. Three months after David's funeral, and she still couldn't bring herself to cancel their Wednesday morning reservation. The club manager, a kind man with tired eyes, never mentioned the empty spot across from her. He just booked the court, week after week, as if David might walk through the gate any moment, late as always, grinning about some crisis at the firm.

A golden retriever from the neighboring yard trotted up to the fence, tail wagging with that indiscriminate enthusiasm that made Margot want to scream. David had wanted a dog. They'd argued about it for years—him insisting their house was too quiet, her claiming their lives were already too full. Now the house was silent as a tomb, and she understood too late that the emptiness was far worse than the mess.

The dog barked once, joyfully, and turned away.

Margot's phone buzzed in her pocket. Her sister: 'Are you coming to dinner? Mom's making your favorite.' Another thing she couldn't bring herself to cancel. The weight of other people's concern felt like a physical pressure, like being slowly crushed beneath something massive and indifferent. A bear standing on her chest, pushing the air from her lungs, patient and eternal.

She dropped the racquet. It hit the turf with a dull thud. The sound echoed across the empty court, and in that moment, she finally understood what David had tried to tell her after his diagnosis: that grief wasn't something you moved past. It was something you carried. You just had to decide whether it would crush you or become part of you, heavy but manageable, like carrying a child up a long hill.

Margot walked to the gate and locked it behind her. She left the racquet on the ground.