What We Leave Behind

The backyard pool sat stagnant, leaves skimming the surface like abandoned memories. Elena stood at the edge, clutching a bag of spinach she'd forgotten to put away after the grocery run three days ago. The leaves had gone slimy, a rotting testament to how thoroughly she'd let everything slide.

"You're doing it again," Marcus said from the patio door. He wouldn't come outside. Not anymore.

"Doing what?" She didn't turn around.

"Living in the past. That pool's been empty since last summer. Since the miscarriage."

The spinach bag split in her hands. Green slime coated her fingers. She wiped them on her dress, watching the fabric stain. "Maybe I like it here. Maybe it's easier than pretending we're fine."

"I met someone."

The words hit her like physical blows. She'd known—of course she'd known—but hearing them made it real. Made it final. She remembered their honeymoon in Alaska, how they'd watched a grizzly bear through binoculars, Marcus whispering that he wanted to grow old with her, that he wanted their love to be that fierce, that enduring. Now he stood in the doorway of a house that had become a tomb, telling her he'd already started building another life.

"Is she pregnant?" The question escaped before she could stop it.

His silence was answer enough.

Elena threw the spinach into the empty pool. It landed on the concrete with a wet slap. "Go then."

"Elena—"

"Go. Before I remember all the reasons I stayed."

She listened to his car start, listened to it drive away. The backyard was quiet. The pool was still empty. And somewhere beneath the weight of everything she'd been carrying, something inside her began to crack open—something that might, eventually, be able to hold light again.