I adopted the oldest dog in the shelter knowing she had only weeks to live. On the outside, my husband Daniel and I looked like a stable, settled couple—steady jobs, a modest home, predictable days. Inside our house, silence had taken root. Years of trying for children had worn us down, each disappointment quietly erasing words we no longer knew how to say. We moved through routines, careful not to touch the grief that lived between us.
The idea of a dog came to me one quiet evening. I suggested bringing something living into our home—something to care for together. Daniel hesitated, warning he didn’t want noise or chaos, but finally agreed to “just look.” At the shelter, surrounded by barking and spinning dogs, my eyes found Daisy. She lay alone in the far corner, silver-muzzled and still. When I knelt, her tail tapped once, as if she were choosing me back.
