What We're Missing

Emma watched the spinach wither in the pan, its deep green leaves collapsing under heat, much like the conversation she'd been rehearsing for months. The iphone on the counter lit up again—Mark's third call in twenty minutes. She let it go to voicemail.

"You're being childish," Sarah had said over coffee yesterday, her tone shifting somewhere between concern and judgment. "He's your husband, Emma. Your best friend. Don't let pride cost you everything."

But Sarah didn't know about the text messages. Didn't know how Mark had been measuring his worth in promotions and bonuses while Emma measured hers in something harder to quantify.

The spinach was ready. She served it onto her plate, alone.

Her mother's voice echoed in memory: *A vitamin won't fix what's missing from your life, baby girl. Neither will a man.* Her mother had died believing this, having left Emma's father when Emma was twelve, choosing poverty over the quiet erosion of her spirit.

Mark called the company's direction " bullshit" at dinner parties, ranted about corporate greed and market bulls and bears while accepting every promotion they offered. He called it providing. Emma called it something else entirely.

The iphone chimed with a text: *We need to talk. Please pick up.*

She scrolled through old photos instead—her and Mark at their wedding, both thinner then, both believing in something. She zoomed in on his smile. When had it become performative?

The spinach tasted bitter. Or maybe that was just the truth finally landing on her tongue.

She thought about Sarah calling Mark her friend. The word landed differently now. A friend didn't measure your value in what you cost or provided. A friend didn't need to be reminded of your name in the spaces between silences.

Emma stood up, rinsed her plate, and picked up her phone.

"Yes," she said, when he answered on the first ring. "Let's talk."

Some conversations, she realized, were vitamins you had to stop taking to realize they'd never been medicine at all.