When I had quiet breakdowns in the kitchen after bedtime, he nudged my hand until I pet him.
Sometimes I’d catch him staring at the front door, tail twitching, like he was still waiting for John.
“Yeah,” I’d murmur, sitting beside him on the floor.
“Me too.”
People laugh now when I tell them I went full horror-movie mode over a baby monitor and almost called the cops on my own dog.
But they didn’t see the nights leading up to that.
The bone-deep exhaustion.
The way grief makes every creak sound like danger.
The way being the only adult in the house amplifies every fear.
Continue reading…
