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

Not toys. Not old rags. Her clothes. Things that smelled like home.

My daughter had built this nest.

I pressed my palm flat against the dirt floor, overwhelmed by a rush of emotion that was different from the grief I had been drowning in. This feeling didn’t pull me under. It lifted me, just enough to breathe.

The mother cat watched me closely, her green continue reading …