The Weight of Leaving

Emma stood in the center of the padel court, her racket dangling from nerveless fingers. Three weeks ago, this had been David's passion—his midlife crisis purchase, he'd called it, laughing. Now she was learning alone, per his therapist's suggestion. 'Keep living,' the note on the fridge had said. 'Find joy.'

Her hair, once the color David had compared to autumn leaves, now hung in an awkward bob she'd cut herself the night after the funeral. The stylist seemed too intimate a stranger.

The instructor, a younger man with a cap permanently pulled low, waved her over. 'Your grip's all wrong,' he said, adjusting her fingers on the handle. 'Like you're holding a baseball bat, not a paddle.'

The word stopped her cold. Baseball. David had played in college, kept his old glove in the garage alongside cable spools from his failed attempt to rewire the entertainment system last spring. She'd found him there that night, swearing at a tangle of wires, sweat matting his temples, looking suddenly old.

'You okay?' the instructor asked.

Emma looked up at his hat—a faded blue thing with a local brewery logo. David had owned one just like it. 'Fine,' she said, though her voice cracked.

The truth was, she couldn't remember the last time she'd been fine. The numbness had set in gradually, like frost on a windowpane. First during his diagnosis, then through the treatments, then after. People kept saying it would get easier. They didn't mention that getting easier meant forgetting—his voice, the way he hummed while cooking, the precise angle of his sleeping face beside hers.

'Let's try again,' she said, tightening her grip.

The ball sailed toward her, and for a moment, everything else fell away. Just the court, the game, the possibility of something new. Not healing. Not yet. But maybe, eventually, something like living again.