The Weight of Small Things

Marcus stood in the bathroom, the morning light cutting harsh across the mirror. He held the orange **vitamin** capsule between thumb and forefinger, something he'd done every morning for fifteen years. Susan had bought them—bulk discount from Costco, always thinking ahead to a future they'd share. He swallowed it without water, a dry lump in his throat, and wondered if she'd notice he was gone before the bottle ran empty.

Down the hall, their son's bedroom door stood slightly ajar. Inside, on the dresser, the signed **baseball** collected dust. Marcus had taken Jamie to that game—minor league, humid July, cheap seats behind home plate. Jamie was eleven then, still willing to be seen with his father, still believing in the unspoken contract between them: I show up, you notice. Now Jamie was twenty-two, living in the city with friends whose fathers knew when to let go.

Marcus's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Susan. Again.

"Pick up," her text read.

He stared at his own **palm**, the lifeline etched there like a question mark. The night before, reaching across the dinner table, she'd pulled her hand away when his fingers grazed hers. Not deliberately—she was reaching for her wine glass, the motion automatic. But he'd frozen there, exposed.

"We need to talk," she'd said later, in bed, facing away from him.

He'd said nothing. What was there to say?

In the living room, the **goldfish**—rescue from Jamie's carnival prize phase eight years ago—drifted through its bowl, orange against black gravel. It had outlasted every prediction. Should've died in a month, two tops. That was the joke they told at dinner parties. Then it became something else: a symbol of stubborn persistence, of things that refused to die despite all the reasons they should.

Marcus placed his keys on the counter. Susan would be home in twenty minutes—yoga running late, again. He could be packed by then. Or he could pour two glasses of wine, sit on the back porch, and finally say the thing that had been living in his chest for three years.

The fish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent oxygen. Marcus realized he was still standing there, still waiting.

He reached for his phone and typed back: "I'm here."

Then he went to the closet, took down the baseball glove from the top shelf, and carried it to the backyard. Spring was coming. If Jamie visited, if Susan stayed—if they tried again—someone would need to play catch.