One night, sitting on the porch with Willow curled beside me, I realized something.
She wasn’t thinking about them.
She wasn’t holding onto what had been done to her. She wasn’t measuring her life by the worst thing that ever happened.
She was watching the wind move through the trees. Listening to distant sounds. Existing in a moment that, for her, was enough.
I looked down at her, scratching behind her ears, and let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding for weeks.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Maybe you’ve got the right idea.”
The first time she ran—really ran—was in that park.
Not the careful, limping trot she’d used before. Not the cautious steps of a dog unsure of the ground beneath her. This was different.
A kid had thrown a tennis ball too far. It bounced once, twice, rolling across the grass. Willow watched it, head tilted.
Then something clicked.
