We didn’t expect a breakthrough.
Mr. Halvorsen hadn’t spoken since early December. The staff called it “sunsetting”—a quiet fading away. No one came to visit anymore. Most of his meals were left untouched. Day after day, he sat in his wheelchair by the window, gazing out at the parking lot as if waiting for someone who’d long stopped coming.
When Sunny arrived—the golden retriever therapy dog—most of the residents lit up. There were smiles, laughter, requests for cuddles and wet-nosed kisses.
But not Mr. Halvorsen. He didn’t react at all.
Still, Sunny made her way over, sat patiently in front of him, and gently rested her head on his knees.
We all paused.
He looked down. Slowly, his trembling hands reached out to touch her fur.
And then, for the first time in over a month, we heard his voice.
It was rough, quiet, like something long buried being unearthed.
“Had a dog just like you,” he murmured. “Her name was Mags.”
His gaze stayed on Sunny. His hand kept stroking her coat.
But the rest of us exchanged glances. Because it had been 42 silent days.
Now, every week, he asks if Sunny’s coming back. He even shared a memory—something about Mags, a fishing trip, soaked boots, and a sandwich stolen by a sneaky dog.
But today, we got a call from his daughter.
She’s planning to move him to a more “affordable” home.
They don’t allow pets.
Let me tell you something about Mr. Halvorsen. Before all this, he was a carpenter. A skilled one. You could still see it in his hands—steady, deliberate—especially when he talked about building. One of the nurses found an old photo in his wallet: a younger Halvorsen beside a little girl holding a bright blue birdhouse. That girl was Claire, his daughter—before things got messy, or maybe after. No one really knows.
Claire’s calls were always short and formal. She lived three states away, busy with her own world, but she made sure his bills were paid. Until now. Now, she says, it’s too much. “It’s not personal,” she told us today. “It’s practical.”
Practical.
I wanted to shout. How is it practical to take away the one thing that’s helping your father come back to life?
I’m Rose, by the way. I’ve worked here for five years. I’ve seen the quiet miracles, the heartbreaks, the moments of grace. I’ve learned more than I can say about love, patience, and letting go.
But this? This feels like stealing something sacred.
Thursday came again, and with it, Sunny.
We brought Mr. Halvorsen into the common room, where she waited, tail wagging like a heartbeat.
His face softened the second he saw her.
“She came,” he whispered, almost like he hadn’t dared hope she would.
Sunny trotted over, settled beside him, and leaned into his legs.
He scratched behind her ears. She let out a long, contented sigh.
