The vet estimated Daisy had a month left. Maybe two.
“Compassion adoption,” the shelter called it—a kindness for dogs at the end of their lives. My husband called it a waste of time.
“You’re really doing this?” Ethan demanded as I filled out the forms.
I scratched behind Daisy’s ears. Her tail thumped weakly against the floor.
Ethan left. Daisy stayed.
We spent our days in quiet companionship—slow walks, long naps, peanut butter sandwiches shared on the floor. The vet was shocked at her progress. “Whatever you’re doing,” he said, “keep doing it.”
When Ethan saw us a year later—Daisy running through the park, Leo’s arm around me—he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“Impossible,” he muttered.
But some things aren’t impossible. They’re just unexpected blessings.
