The Weight of Small Things by Sherri Wood Emmons

left. It was September 14, 2001—three days after the terror attacks in New York and Washington. They’d been living together since graduation in a tiny basement apartment, Corrie working for the university’s news bureau, Daniel tending bar at a place on Kendle.
    For three days, they’d sat glued to the television, watching the terrible footage from the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, the field in Pennsylvania. Finally, Daniel said he couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t just stay in Middlebrook and tend bar. He needed to be there, in New York. He needed to help.
    He’d begged Corrie to go with him. “Think of how much you can do there, how much we can help.”
    But Corrie couldn’t leave Middlebrook. “My family is here. My mom needs me. And Maya . . .”
    “Maya is sixteen,” Daniel said. “In a couple years she’ll leave for college. There’s nothing forcing you to stay, Corrie. You have a choice. Come with me.”
    In the end, he had gone and Corrie had stayed, spending the next two weeks curled up in the bed they’d shared, crying, wishing she’d had the courage to go, wishing he’d loved her enough to stay.

8
    B ryn leaned back on the couch, watching through the door to the kitchen as Bob washed dishes. She smiled, looking around the living room. Worn, overstuffed chairs, nicked and scratched end tables, a small truck under the coffee table. It was comfortable and homey—just like Bob. She picked up a framed photo from the end table and studied it, a family portrait taken last year. Bob and Wendy and two chubby-faced little boys, all smiling for the camera. Bryn’s eyes darted from the photo to the man in the kitchen. His hair is turning gray so fast, she thought. I didn’t realize it till now. He’ll be completely gray soon.
    She shook her head, studying the picture again. Wendy’s smile was bright, and a mass of dark red ringlets circled her freckled face like a mane. Her left hand rested on Bob’s shoulder, a small diamond sparkling on the third finger.
    What is wrong with her? Bryn wondered. Why would she leave someone like Bob? And for such a loser.
    Bryn had met Wendy’s new boyfriend only once, and that had been enough. She knew the type—a middle-aged, beer-bellied, chain-smoking good ole boy with nicotine-stained teeth. The kind who measured the year by hunting and fishing seasons.
    She looked again at Bob, wiping the counters now. Short, solid, kind, dear Bob. She laid the picture facedown on the table.
    Stupid witch, she said to herself. Stupid, selfish witch .
    “Are you sure I can’t help?” she asked.
    “I’m finished now,” he answered, laughing. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”
    Bob walked into the room, carrying a tall glass. “You sure you don’t want a drink?” He stood over her, waving the glass.
    “No thanks.” She smiled, shaking her head. “What is that, anyway?”
    “Rum and coke,” he answered, dropping into a chair. “I’ve developed quite a taste for them lately.”
    “Be careful.” Bryn eyed him cautiously. “That can be habit-forming.”
    “I know.” Bob put the drink down on a coaster. “I usually just have one at night. So I can sleep.”
    “Is it hard?” Bryn asked softly.
    “Yeah, it’s hard.”
    They sat in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped in thought. Finally, Bob leaned over and turned on the stereo. The opening notes of “Angel” floated through the air.
    “God, I haven’t heard that in a while.”
    “I took Wendy to a Sarah McLachlan concert on our first date,” Bob said quietly.
    Bryn leaned over and turned the music off. “Stop that!” she commanded. “Just stop it.”
    Bob simply looked at her.
    “Okay,” Bryn said quietly. “Look, she’s gone. She left, and she’s not coming back. You can’t make her come back. I don’t know why she left, and I think she’s a fool. We all do. But she’s gone, and you have to deal with it.”
    “I know,” Bob said. “But I keep thinking maybe . .