When the judge handed down the decision, I didn’t argue. I just nodded, packed up my stuff, and moved into a one-room studio that barely had a window. My ex said I wasn’t stable enough. Said the trauma made me unpredictable, and that our daughter deserved “someone steady.”
She wasn’t wrong.
The meds made me groggy. The nightmares made me distant. And the way I flinched at loud noises? Yeah. Not exactly the picture of safe.
I kept to myself. Took long walks through the industrial stretch behind the bus depot just to avoid crowds. That’s where I first saw him—this scruffy, mud-covered mutt with a limp that made me wince just watching. He had three legs and the eyes of someone who’d seen too much.
I ignored him at first.
But the next day, he was there again.
And the day after that.
He never barked. Just followed—two paces behind, like he was waiting for permission to belong. One morning, it started to rain, and I finally gave in. “Alright,” I said, opening the door. “But you’re not staying.”
He stayed.
I named him Clutch.
Turns out, having something rely on you—look up at you with full trust even when you feel hollow inside—it changes you. I started getting up earlier. Feeding him. Brushing him. Talking to him like he understood.
