Part 1: The Morning My Dog Wouldn’t Stop Scratching at the Door

I don’t often speak about what happened. Even now, it feels unreal. But to understand what followed, you need to understand the space I was in. I was surviving, not living. Breathing, but barely.

The house felt wrong without her. Too still. Too neat. Too empty.

Lily’s room remained untouched. Her art supplies were still scattered across her desk, crayons rolling near a half-colored sunflower she never finished. Her pink lamp stayed plugged in, glowing softly at night like it was waiting for her to come back. I would pause in the hallway outside her door, almost expecting her to jump out and scare me the way she used to.

She never did.

My husband, Daniel, had returned home only days earlier. He moved slowly, carefully, as if any sudden motion might shatter what little strength he had left. He barely spoke. When he did, his voice sounded distant, hollow. The nights were hardest for him, and sleep rarely came without struggle.

Most mornings, I woke before the sun. I would sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold, staring out at the backyard through fogged glass. The mug read “Best Mom Ever,” written in colorful marker. Lily had given it to me the previous spring.

That morning, I told myself I would take a sip. Just one. Something normal.

My hands didn’t move.

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