After Greg and I learned we couldn’t have children, the silence between us grew heavier. One day, I suggested getting a dog—“someone to love,” I said. Greg wasn’t too excited but agreed, as long as it wasn’t “some noisy little thing.”
At the shelter, I found her—Maggie. An old, fragile dog with gray fur, curled up in the back. Her tag said she was 12 and only available for hospice adoption. She looked exhausted and defeated. But when I knelt down, she gave a faint wag of her tail. I just knew she was meant to be mine.
Greg thought I was crazy. “That dog’s already half gone,” he said. Then he gave me an ultimatum: “Bring her home, and I’m out.”
By the time I arrived with Maggie, Greg was gone. She slowly walked inside, looked up at me, and wagged her tail a little stronger. I whispered, “We’ll figure this out.”
Six months later, I ran into Greg outside a bookstore, coffee in hand.
He grinned like he’d been waiting. “Well, Clara, still alone? Let me guess—your dog didn’t last. Was it worth losing everything?”
Before I could answer, a young, attractive woman linked arms with him.
Greg glanced at her and then back at me. “You figure it out yet? Honestly, I wasn’t heartbroken when you chose that dog. It made leaving easier.”
His words hit me hard. “You were cheating already,” I murmured.
Suddenly, Greg’s smug look vanished, replaced by shock and rage. His eyes fixed on something behind me.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!” he yelled.
