What We Choose to Bear

The bear market had claimed everything—my career, my pride, and apparently now my marriage.

"You're not even listening," Sarah said, pushing her plate away. The spinach lay wilted and uneaten.

"I am."

"Your phone lit up three times during dinner, David. That's not listening."

My iPhone sat face-up on the table between us like a confession. A fourth notification glowed across the screen—some analyst's panic about the latest correction. I'd spent fifteen years riding bulls through charging markets, celebrating when we broke through resistance, mourning when we crashed through support floors. I'd forgotten how to talk about anything else.

"It's just—"

"Work. I know." She stood up. "I can't bear it anymore."

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, briefly illuminating the steakhouse's mahogany paneling. In that flash, I saw her face—exhausted, resigned, like she'd been having this conversation alone for months.

"Sarah, please."

"Remember when we used to talk about having kids?" Her voice cracked. "Now you come home at eleven, reeking of scotch and adrenaline, telling me about the bulls and bears. I don't care about the bears, David. I care about us."

Another lightning strike. Thunder shook the windows.

"The offer on the house came in," she said quietly. "I'm taking it."

"But that's our—"

"It was never really ours, was it? You were always somewhere else. Even when you were home."

She walked out into the storm, leaving me with the check and the realization that some market crashes don't have recoveries. The bears had finally caught us, and I'd been too busy watching the ticker to notice I was losing the only thing that actually mattered.