What We Carried

The apartment was already half-empty when Marcus found the old photograph. His hat sat on the box marked 'Hers,' a beige fedora she'd bought him at a thrift store in Portland, back when they still made impulsive stops on road trips. He hadn't worn it since the funeral.

His mother's cat, a skeletal calico named Marge who had outlived them all, watched from her perch atop the refrigerator. She was the only thing they'd agreed on in the division of assets. Sara had wanted the dog—some golden retriever mix she'd adopted three months ago, as if a pet could fill the hollow spaces their marriage had become. Marcus got Marge and the spinach-colored armchair his father had died in.

'You're doing it again,' Sara said from the doorway. She wore fox-fur boots, a gift from her coworker that Marcus had secretly hated. 'That thing where you retreat inside yourself and I'm supposed to chase you.'

Marcus had learned to bear it—the silences, the accusations, the way she made his boundaries sound like abandonment tactics. In couples therapy, Dr. Chen called it 'emotional unavailability.' Marcus called it survival.

'I'm not retreating,' he said. 'I'm packing.'

'That's all you ever do.' She stepped into the room, and the floorboards groaned like they'd been groaning for years, a structural problem they'd meant to fix since 2019. 'Remember that weekend in the cabin? You said you'd fix the steps. You said a lot of things.'

The cabin. Where they'd seen the bear—a grizzly, lumbering through the mist at dawn, so close they could see the silver-tipped fur. They'd held hands on the porch, breathless with terror and wonder. Something wild and dangerous, and they'd survived it together.

Now they couldn't survive a Tuesday.

'The cat goes with you,' Sara said. 'I can't. My landlord—'

'You don't get to give her away. She was your mother's favorite.'

'Your mother. She was your mother.'

Marge let out a yowl, as if on cue. The absurdity of it hit Marcus suddenly: here they were, two people who had once promised each other everything, arguing over who would care for a fifteen-pound animal who hated them both. The spinach in the crisper drawer was rotting. He'd meant to cook it Sunday.

'Take the boots,' he said. 'Take the picture from Santa Fe. Take the good blender.' He picked up his hat. 'I'll take Marge and the memories you don't want anymore.'

She didn't cry. She didn't say his name. She just watched him place the hat on his head, like a man stepping into a role he'd forgotten how to play.

Outside, the city was already moving on without them. Cars honked. Someone laughed. The world kept ending, one small apocalypse at a time.