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

going on?” he asked quietly.

I looked up at him, Lily’s yellow sweater folded neatly in my lap. For the first time in weeks, the tears in my eyes weren’t sharp. They were soft.

“It’s Lily’s,” I said gently. “Her secret.”

He lowered himself carefully into the chair, his brow furrowing as I explained everything. The sweater. Baxter. The shed. The clothes.continue reading …