Over and over again. Each time, he promised to change. Each time, nothing did.
By the time I filed for divorce, I was exhausted. Emotionally hollowed out. I thought leaving would be the hardest part.
I was wrong again. Calvin kicked me out of the house during the proceedings, citing ownership technicalities. Worse, he refused to let me take Willow.
“She stays,” he said coldly. “She’s mine,” I pleaded. “She was with me before we ever met.”
“She’s on my property,” he replied.
“End of discussion.”
I begged. I cried. I tried reason.
Nothing moved him. Then, one afternoon, my phone rang. “I dropped the dog off at a shelter,” Calvin said casually.
I felt like the ground vanished beneath me. “You did what?” I screamed. He laughed.
Actually laughed. Then he hung up. I spent the next days in a haze of panic and grief.
I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I imagined Willow confused, alone, wondering why I never came back.
I searched every shelter within driving distance. I called, emailed, and showed up in person with photos and descriptions. When that wasn’t enough, I hired a private investigator named Elliot.
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