The Weight We Carry

The elevator cable hummed as she descended to the parking garage, another day ended, another gray hair discovered in the rearview mirror. Forty-two and already feeling like a zombie, moving through motions that no longer belonged to her. The divorce papers sat on the passenger seat, final and cold.

She'd wanted children. He'd wanted to "find himself" in Bali. Now she had the house, the debt, and their golden retriever, Buster, who stared at her with soulful eyes from the backyard each evening, waiting for someone who wasn't coming home.

The office tomorrow would be worse. Everyone knew. Linda from accounting with her pitying looks. The way her voice cracked in meetings, bearing the weight of a life that had quietly unraveled. She'd stopped coloring her hair three months ago. Let it all go gray. What was the point?

She sat in the car, engine idling, and watched the apartment complex across the street. A young couple walked their dog, laughing about something. The cable guy's van was parked outside, and she remembered: they'd never had cable installed in this house. He'd insisted on streaming, on being modern. Now she had nothing but silence and a dog who didn't understand why his master never returned.

Buster barked, a single sharp sound that broke her reverie. She got out of the car, breath fogging in the autumn chill. Tomorrow she'd call the cable company. Tomorrow she'd dye her hair. Tomorrow she'd be the person everyone expected her to be.

Tonight, she would simply bear the weight of being alone.