We speak often of the heavy burdens of the heart—the grief that sits like a stone, the regret that congeals in the corners of the mind—but we rarely speak of the smaller, quieter suffocations. We rarely speak of the dishwasher.

The manual will tell you to check the filter. This is the surface level, the easy confession. You unscrew the plastic cage at the bottom of the tub, and there, caught in the mesh, is the immediate evidence of your haste. A lemon seed. A shard of glass. You clear it, hoping this is the extent of the blockage. You run the machine again. The water remains.