What We Keep

The spinach wilted in the colander, exactly like her hope had—gradually, then all at once. Three months of doctor appointments, of calculating ovulation windows, of pretending this was just another Tuesday dinner. Marcus stood at the stove, his hair graying at the temples in a way that made her chest ache. When had he started looking like his father? When had they started becoming people who aged?

Barnaby, their ancient golden retriever, nudged her knee with his wet nose. He'd been her companion through graduate school, through her thesis defense, through the miscarriage last spring that neither of them could quite speak about. Animals carried histories in their bodies, stored grief in their sad eyes.

"You okay?" Marcus asked, not turning from the pan.

She considered lying. That's what marriages were made of sometimes—small merciful deceptions. But the spinach wasn't the only thing wilting lately.

"I stopped taking the supplements," she said.

The oil hissed and popped. He lowered the heat.

"Oh."

"My hair started falling out anyway. The stress, I guess. And I realized—I don't know if I want to keep trying just to prove something to ourselves."

Barnaby sighed, that long expelling of breath that dogs do when they're settling in for the night. He stretched across the kitchen floor, his reddish-gold fur catching the afternoon light. Some part of her would always love this creature more fiercely than she'd ever love a hypothetical child. Was that wrong? Or just honest?

Marcus turned, spatula in hand. "I talked to my brother today. He and Sarah are getting divorced."

She hadn't known. "Oh god."

"They have two kids, a house in the suburbs, the whole life. And apparently, they haven't been happy in years. They were just—performing. For the kids, for their parents, for the life they thought they should want."

The spinach went into the pan, bright green against the dark oil. It only took thirty seconds to cook.

"What are you saying?" she asked, though she already knew.

"I'm saying maybe we're allowed to want what we actually have. This dog, this kitchen, each other—even when it's not enough. Especially when it's not enough."

She pressed her palm to Barnaby's warm flank, felt his steady heartbeat against her skin. Some losses you learned to live inside. Others you learned to live without.

"Dinner's ready," Marcus said.

And it was. It would have to be.