The Weight of Greens

The spinach had been wilting in her crisper drawer for three weeks—a testament to how thoroughly her life had unraveled since Marcus left. Elena stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, staring at the bag as if it might suddenly offer wisdom about why forty years of careful choices had led to a mortgage she couldn't afford and a marriage that dissolved over email.

Her golden retriever, Barnaby, pressed his warm flank against her leg. He'd been Marcus's dog originally, yet somehow in the divorce settlement, she'd fought for custody of the animal over the retirement fund. The pyramid of bills on the counter suggested she'd made the wrong choice.

"You hungry too?" she whispered, scratching behind his ears. Barnaby's tail thumped against the cabinet—a metronome counting out the hours of her insomnia.

She grabbed the spinach, a carton of eggs, and the last bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. As she chopped, her mind circled back to Marcus's last words: *You're too rigid, Elena. Always have been.* The accusation had stung more than the affair.

The wine glass left condensation rings on the marble counter. Marcus had picked out the counters. Marcus had chosen this house with its ridiculous open concept and kitchen that nobody actually cooked in. Marcus had built their life like a pyramid scheme: each level dependent on the next, until the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.

Barnaby whined, bringing her back to the present. She scrambled eggs with spinach, watching the greens turn bright, then soft, then almost transparent. Like trust, she thought bitterly. Like faith.

The first bite burned her tongue. She sat on the floor anyway, Barnaby beside her, sharing the eggs. He ate with the enthusiasm of a creature who'd never known betrayal.

"You know what the sad part is?" she asked him. "I actually thought I was happy."

Barnaby licked her chin. His breath smelled like kibble and unconditional love. Something cracked open in her chest—not quite healing, but perhaps the beginning of it.

"Tomorrow," she said to the empty kitchen, to the sleeping dog, to the woman she'd been and the one she might become, "tomorrow I'll make real changes. Starting with the spinach."

But even as she said it, she knew she would buy fresh spinach tomorrow, and it would sit in the crisper drawer, and she would be just fine.