I never imagined that a visit to the shelter would lead me to a decision that would unravel my marriage. But as I knelt in front of that frail old dog, something in me clicked. She needed me—and maybe, just maybe, I needed her too.
Greg and I had spent years trying to fill the void in our marriage. We’d been together for over a decade, but every doctor’s appointment and every test confirmed the worst—we couldn’t have children. We stopped talking about it after a while, the sadness hanging between us like an unwelcome guest. We moved through life together, but we were worlds apart, pretending that we weren’t falling apart.
Then, one evening, as we sat across from each other in the dim kitchen light, I said quietly, “Maybe we should get a dog.”
Greg glanced up from his plate, unimpressed. “A dog?”
“Something to love,” I said softly. “Something to fill the silence.”
He exhaled sharply. “Fine. But I’m not dealing with some yappy little thing.”
That’s how we found ourselves at the local shelter.
The moment we walked in, chaos greeted us—dozens of dogs barking, tails wagging, paws scratching at their cages. They all wanted attention. All except one.
In the farthest kennel, curled in the shadows, was Maggie.
She didn’t make a sound. Her frail body barely stirred as I knelt beside the bars. Her fur was patchy, her ribs visible, and her graying muzzle rested on her paws, as if she had already accepted her fate.
