“I couldn’t bear to put her down. I just didn’t have the means. My wife died. I work two jobs. Debt suffocated me. Madison thinks Daisy ran away. It was easier than admitting I abandoned her.”
“She’s at my place,” I told them. “She’s living again.”
Later, Daisy improved gradually. She couldn’t walk at first, but her tail tried its best. Madison talked to her, read to her, fed her treats.
I visited weekly. Brought medicine, food, groceries. Tom, her father, sometimes tried to reimburse me. I refused.
“She believed in miracles,” I told him. “I’ll honor that.”
Months passed. Daisy survived beyond what any vet expected. Her strength waxed and waned. We knew cancer remained, lurking.
My brother died in month seven. In the fog of grief, I’d missed weeks of visits. When I returned to Madison’s porch, she and Daisy were there—side by side, matching bandanas.
“We were worried,” she said.
“Sorry. Your brother is in heaven now.”
She nodded. “Mom’s there too, right?”
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