The shelter volunteer hesitated when I pointed to Daisy. “Are you sure? She’s… special needs.”
Thirteen years old, half-blind, with a prognosis of weeks to live. The other dogs barked for attention, but Daisy just lifted her head slightly, as if surprised anyone had noticed her at all.
My husband Ethan glared. “This is a joke, right?”
I signed the papers anyway.
Ethan moved out that night. “You’re choosing a dying dog over me?”
“Yes,” I said. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel guilty.
Daisy and I learned together. She taught me patience—how to celebrate tiny victories, like the first time she licked peanut butter off my finger. I taught her trust—that hands could be gentle, that she was safe.
When Ethan saw us months later, Daisy trotting happily beside Leo, his face twisted. “You replaced me with some random guy and that mutt?”
Leo squeezed my hand. Daisy wagged her tail.
Some losses aren’t losses at all.
