What We Carry

The rain had been falling for three days straight, water slicking the windows like tears refusing to fall. Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, forcing himself to eat the spinach salad Elena had prepared—something about iron, about strength, about pretending normal still existed between them.

Their dog, Buster, sensed it first. The golden retriever abandoned his bed to press against Marcus's leg, offering the kind of unconditional comfort that made everything harder. The house was too quiet now. The nursery they'd painted soft yellow remained empty, its door closed since the second miscarriage.

"We should talk about it," Elena said from the doorway. She looked tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix.

"There's nothing to say."

"There's everything to say." She moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of white wine. "My mother called again. She thinks we should take a break. Maybe see someone."

Marcus pushed his plate away. "And what? Talk about how our bodies failed us? About the nursery that's become a monument to what we can't have?"

"About us," she said softly. "About whether we're going to survive this."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding. Outside, the downpour intensified. He thought about the stock market crash that had cost him his promotion last month—bear market, they called it, as if the terminology softened the blow. As if labeling it made it any less destructive.

"I'm going for a drive," he said, grabbing his keys.

"Marcus—"

"I need to think."

He drove to the lake where they'd spent their anniversary, watching water lap against the shore in the darkness. The divorce papers sat in his glove compartment, unsigned. Elena's words echoed in his head: *about whether we're going to survive this.*

He thought about how love wasn't enough sometimes. How grief could be a tide that pulled you under if you didn't learn to swim in it.

When he returned at dawn, Elena was asleep on the couch with Buster curled beside her. Marcus covered her with a blanket, then went to the kitchen. He washed both their dishes, opened the blinds to let the morning light in, and started breakfast.

Some things, he realized, you didn't fix. You carried them together, or you let them break you apart. He chose to carry them.