The Weight of Leaving

The cat watched from the windowsill—Maya's cat now, not ours—as I taped up another box. Outside, a perfect spring afternoon unfolded, the kind that used to mean baseball in the park, beers at the corner bar, her hand in mine. Now it meant just more time alone.

My iPhone buzzed on the counter: Sarah asking if I was okay, Mom wanting to know about the divorce papers. I ignored them all.

"You're taking the baseball stuff?" Maya stood in the doorway, arms crossed, exactly like she had the night she told me she couldn't do this anymore. "I thought you hated that sport."

"I don't hate it," I said, wrapping my signed 1998 World Series program in bubble wrap. "I hated that I only watched it because you wanted me to."

She laughed, short and surprised. "Well. Better late than never."

The cable bill sat on the kitchen island, final notice red and screaming. We'd fought about it three nights ago—the way we fought about everything now, with careful words that hid the real damage underneath. She'd insisted on keeping the premium package; I'd said we needed to save money. Neither of us had mentioned that we hadn't watched television together in six months.

From the bedroom, I heard my phone ringing. Another distraction. Another person wanting something I couldn't give.

"There's one more thing," Maya said, her voice suddenly small.

I followed her to the closet, where she pulled down the old bear from the top shelf—the threadbare one I'd slept with every night through college, through graduate school, through the first three years of our marriage. The bear that had somehow migrated to the closet when we started trying to have children, as if childish things had no place in a house meant for family.

"I didn't think you'd want it," she said. "Since you stopped—"

"Since we stopped needing comfort," I finished.

The bear's glass eye was cracked. Its fur was matted in places where tears had dried, years ago, when things were still worth crying about.

"You know," she said, "I always thought it was strange that you kept it."

"Me too." I took the bear from her hands. "But some things you just can't explain."

The cat yawned, indifferent to our small epiphanies. In the living room, the television flickered—cable news someone had left on. Somewhere, a baseball game was starting. Somewhere else, couples were holding hands, not yet knowing how easily everything could fall apart.

"I'll send you the rest of the boxes," I said.

She nodded, already turning away. "Good luck, David."

The bear in my arms felt heavier than it should have. Outside, the afternoon continued, perfect and unconcerned.