What We Leave Behind

The spinach was wilting in the colander, just like everything else in this kitchen, in this house, in the carefully curated life I'd built with Richard. Sixteen years of marriage reduced to a vegetable I couldn't bring myself to cook.

Marcus sat at the island, swirling wine in a glass that was too expensive for 2 PM on a Tuesday. My oldest friend, the man who'd held my hair through college parties and divorce tears, now watching me with that look — the one that says he knows something I don't.

"He's not coming back, is he?" Marcus asked.

I stared at the spinach instead of him. "He said he needed space. Time to figure things out."

"Richard's been 'figuring things out' for three months, Maya." Marcus set down his glass. "I saw him. With that woman from his office."

The back door creaked. Barnaby, our elderly golden retriever, shuffled in, his muzzle now more white than gold. He rested his chin on my knee, those soulful eyes begging for the scraps I'd stopped giving him when Richard left. When *we* left, technically — Richard taking the master bedroom, me taking the guest room and the dog.

"You're imagining things," I said, but my voice cracked.

"I'm your friend, Maya. I'm supposed to tell you when you're lying to yourself." Marcus reached across the counter, covering my hand with his. "I saw them. The fox and the hound, Tom and Jerry, whatever you want to call it. She's young. She's not you."

A fox had been visiting our garden lately, sleek and brazen, stealing tomatoes from the vine I'd planted with Richard last spring. Richard had laughed, called it nature's way, said everything gets taken eventually. Even then, he'd been planning his exit.

I washed the spinach, the cold water shocking my hands. "What do you want me to do?"

"Start living again," Marcus said. "File the papers. Keep the house. Keep the dog. Stop making salads for a ghost."

Barnaby whined, sensing the shift. The fox scratched at the back door, testing the latch. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled in — a summer storm breaking the humidity that had pressed against us for days.

"Richard always hated spinach," I said, and finally, finally, let myself cry.