The Wellness Protocol

Margaret lined up the supplements on the granite counter in a perfect pyramid formation—vitamin D3, magnesium, fish oil, and the new proprietary blend her husband had been obsessively researching. The ritual had begun three months ago, shortly after the diagnosis.

"You need your spinach," David called from the dining room, where he sat hunched over his laptop, the blue light casting shadows under eyes that had seen too much. He was always monitoring her intake now, tracking nutrients like he used to track baseball statistics before the corporate restructuring demoted him from corner office to remote consultant.

She dumped the spinach into the pan, watching it wilt instantly, surrendering. That's what she felt like lately—wilted. Fifty years old and suddenly reduced to a collection of biomarkers and protocols.

"The vitamin regime is working, Marge. Your numbers are improving." He appeared in the doorway, hopeful in that desperate way that made her chest ache.

"I know, David." She couldn't tell him that the supplements made her nauseous, that she missed their wine-soaked dinners, that she secretly resented him for finding purpose in her illness while she found only exhaustion.

That night, after he fell asleep beside his stack of medical journals, she crept to the kitchen and did something she hadn't done since college. She opened the freezer and took out the pint of coffee ice cream she'd hidden behind the frozen peas. She ate it standing up, in the dark, letting the cold sweetness flood her mouth while tears pricked her eyes.

The next morning, she rearranged the supplement pyramid, taking only half. David would notice eventually, but for now, this small act of rebellion kept something vital alive inside her.