I can survive this, I assure myself. It’s okay — by tomorrow, this fish will be gone

IT

starts with a single orange goldfish. The kids bring it home from the neighborhood carnival, and it swims in a little glass bowl perched on my kitchen windowsill. I move through the day, intently focused on the vegetables I’m dicing, the dishes I’m washing, the floor I’m mopping. I purposely do not look at the new addition near the window. I can survive this, I assure myself. It’s okay — by tomorrow, this fish will be gone.

But the next morning, I hear shouts of glee, and I feel a sudden surge of dread. It is still alive. And soon, I make a chilling discovery. This goldfish will survive the day after the carnival, too.

By the next week, I have to admit that this goldfish will actually live. I watch in morbid fascination as it grows. And grows. And GROWS. Which is bizarre, considering the treatment this fish endures from its kid handlers.

And then the children claim it needs a brother.