What the Fish Know

The black veil hat felt ridiculous perched on her head—a vintage shop find she'd never worn before today. But David had always hated it. Some small, spiteful part of her wanted to wear it to his memorial service, a final act of rebellion from a marriage that had already died three years before the cancer took him.

She stood at the back of the crematorium garden, iphone burning against her palm with unread messages. Her sister had texted five times. *You okay? You okay? You okay?* The question mark was the most violent punctuation she knew.

David's second wife, a woman named Chloe who smelled of expensive moisturizer and new beginnings, was speaking at the podium. Something about David's laughter, his warmth, the way he'd made every room brighter. Sarah remembered him differently—remembered the nights he'd come home late, the phone screens illuminating his face as he deleted messages he didn't want her to see.

She thought about the goldfish swimming in its bowl back at her apartment. A carnival prize David had won her on their first date, twenty-two years ago. It had survived three moves, two children, the divorce, and now David himself. Sometimes she looked at that fish, floating in its stagnant circles, and felt recognized.

Chloe was crying now. Soft, photogenic tears. Sarah wanted to hate her, but the truth was more pathetic: she envied her. Chloe got the good version of David. Sarah got the version that stayed.

Her phone buzzed again. *We're going to the reception. Come?*

Sarah pressed the power button, watching the screen fade to black. She adjusted the ridiculous hat, turned away from the gathering, and walked toward the parking lot. The goldfish needed feeding. Some things, she'd learned, you kept alive not because they brought you joy, but because letting them go would mean admitting they'd never been yours to begin with.