When I married my husband and moved into his house, I told myself I was doing the right thing. A fresh start. A new family.
A chance to make things orderly and “normal.”
That house still carried too much of his late wife in it—photos on the walls, old routines, and especially the dog.
The dog slept in the hallway outside my stepdaughter’s room every night. It followed her everywhere.
And every time I looked at it, all I could think was: This animal is a reminder I’ll never measure up. So when my husband was away on a short business trip, I made a decision I told myself was practical.
I sold the dog.