Treading Water

Margaret left on a Tuesday. No ceremony, just her suitcase by the door and a note about needing space. That was three weeks ago, and Elias was still swimming through the days in a haze he couldn't seem to break.

The community pool became his sanctuary. At 6 AM, when the water was still glass-still and the air hung heavy with chlorine and possibility, Elias would swim laps until his muscles burned. There was something primal about the rhythmic motion—arms cutting through water, lungs laboring, the world reduced to the next breath. It was the only time his mind stopped replaying their last argument, the one about baseball of all things, about how he'd promised to take their son to practice but came home drunk instead.

"You're drowning, Elias," she'd said, and wasn't she right.

Now his bathroom counter was lined with vitamin bottles—B12 for energy, D for mood, magnesium for sleep—as if the right combination of pills could fix what twelve years of marriage therapy couldn't. His sister had dropped them off yesterday, looking at him with that particular pity people reserve for disasters they saw coming.

"Tommy's playing shortstop this season," she'd said carefully. "He's good, Elias. Really good."

Baseball. God, the irony wasn't lost on him. He'd dreamed of the majors once, before the knee injury, before Margaret, before everything that mattered got traded away for comfort and routine. Now his son was living the dream he'd abandoned, and Elias couldn't even bring himself to attend the games.

He surfaced from the water, gasping, heart hammering against ribs that felt too prominent lately. The lifeguard watched him with mild concern from the stand.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd call Tommy. Tomorrow he'd stop hiding in this chlorinated womb. Tomorrow he'd learn how to be a father sober.

But for now, Elias tucked himself back under the water, where everything was muffled and clean, where he could almost believe he was still whole.