The Weight of Orange Peels

Maria stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, peeling an orange. The scent hit her—sharp, bright, cutting through the gray fog that had become her life since David left. She'd been walking through days like a zombie, body moving while something inside hollowed out.

Her golden retriever, Barnaby, nudged her hand with his wet nose. He was the only one who didn't ask if she was okay, didn't offer platitudes, just stayed close through the long nights.

Sarah called herself her friend. But Maria remembered the dinner party two weeks ago—Sarah holding court, recounting how Maria had "always been so strong" through the divorce. Strength as performance. Strength as distance. The way Sarah's eyes had darted around the table, checking reactions. That calculation, that careful curation of tragedy.

The orange sections in Maria's hands were perfect, translucent jewels. She thought about the text she'd received earlier: David was getting remarried. To someone he'd known three months. The injustice of it curdled in her stomach.

Barnaby whined, pressing his warm flank against her leg. She sank to the tile floor, dog curling around her like a warm, living blanket. The orange lay forgotten on the counter.

She realized then what she hadn't been able to articulate: she wasn't grieving the loss of David. She was grieving the version of herself she'd sacrificed to keep him happy. The one who apologized first, who calibrated her moods to his, who'd believed compromise meant disappearing piece by piece.

The orange had gone brown on the counter edges by dawn. Maria ate it anyway, bitter and oxidized. It tasted like truth.