The Weight of Things We Keep

The bear had been carved from old pine by Elena's father, and it sat on the mantel for seventeen years—gathering dust, watching us fight, watching us forgive, watching it all fall apart anyway. Now it was mine in the divorce, along with the padel racket she'd bought me three Christmases ago when I swore I'd take up a hobby, anything to get me out of the house on weekends.

I hadn't played once.

Barnaby—our dog, now just my dog—limped into the room. His hip dysplasia had worsened since Elena left, or maybe I was just noticing more things now that the house was so quiet. He rested his chin on my knee and looked up with those liquid brown eyes, accusing me of something. Not feeding him enough. Not walking him enough. Not being enough.

"You're right," I told him. "I'm not enough."

The padel club was half-empty on a Tuesday morning. I rented a court, stood there with the racket she'd chosen—the grip still had the price tag on it—and served against the wall. Thwack. The ball ricocheted back, caught me off guard. Thwack again. My shoulder screamed. I was forty-three years old and falling apart.

A woman on the adjacent court watched me between her own rallies. Maybe forty herself, athletic in that way people get when they're trying to outrun something. She waved.

"First time?" she called.

"First time in three years of owning it."

She laughed, and I realized I hadn't heard genuine laughter in months. Not from me, not directed at me.

"I'm Sarah," she said, stepping to the fence. "Want to hit a few?"

So we played padel with the bear still sitting on my mantel at home, with Barnaby waiting by the door, with all the things I'd kept and all the things I'd lost. And somewhere in the rhythm of the game, in the unexpected pleasure of being seen, in the way Sarah didn't ask about the ring line on my finger, I understood that some things you hold onto, and some things you learn to hit back.