Chapter 4
I shut myself away in the bedroom for an entire day and night.
No food passed my lips, no water touched my throat, and sleep never came.
Michael knocked on the door several times.
The first time, impatience edged his tone. "Emily, how much longer are you going to mope over a dog? Is it really worth all this drama?"
I stayed silent, giving no reply.
On his second visit, his voice softened in a quiet attempt to comfort me. "I ordered your favorite takeout. Come out and eat something."
Still, I remained unresponsive.
The third time, he simply stood outside the door for a long moment, let out a heavy sigh, and walked away.
His retreating footsteps echoed clearly down the hallway, steady, unwavering, just like the man himself.
He was forever rational, forever composed, and forever certain of what he wanted out of life.
Never would he waste a single ounce of genuine sorrow over the loss of an animal.
A deathly hush settled over the room.
Curling my knees to my chest, I sank onto the cold floor, my gaze fixed blankly on one corner of the room.
That spot had once held Snowball's little sanctuary.
There was a soft plush bed, a rubber, colorful ball, and a tattered stuffed rabbit it had loved to gnaw on for years.
Now only an empty bed remained, as if it had never been part of our family at all.
Yet how could that ever be true?
Every corner of this home was etched with its presence, steeped in its familiar scent.
By the entryway hung its custom leash and scratching board.
Beneath the sofa hid leftover treat bones it had sneakily stashed away.
On the balcony sat its food and water bowls, next to a shaded nook I'd built for it with my own hands.
Eight years. More than three thousand days and nights.
It had woven itself into my life as seamlessly as the air I breathed.
Now that the air had been ripped away all at once, leaving behind a suffocating void.
A hollow ache opened up deep in my chest, an icy, gnawing pain that was sharp and unrelenting.
Stiff and numb from sitting motionless for so long, I finally rose to my feet.
I walked over to the dog bed, crouched down, and gently stroked the soft cushion with my hand.
The faint ghost of Snowball's warmth still lingered against my palm.
Pressing my face into the soft fabric, I drew in a deep breath.
Its unique scent flooded my nostrils instantly.
It was a warm mix of kibble, lavender pet shampoo, and sunlight baked into its fur.
It was a fragrance I'd known and cherished for eight long years.
Tears spilled over in torrents. I bit down hard on my lower lip, fighting to muffle my sobs.
I dared not wake Sally in the next room, nor let Michael hear my vulnerability.
He would only dismiss my grief as overreacting, trivial, and unnecessary.
Time slipped by unnoticed until the bedroom door creaked open a crack.
A tiny head peeked inside.
It was Sally, rubbing her sleepy eyes with tiny fists. "Mommy... what's wrong?" she murmured in a soft, childish voice.
She stumbled over to the bed, climbed up clumsily, and snuggled straight into my arms. "Mommy, where's Snowball? Where did it go?"
That innocent question cut straight through my heart like the sharpest blade imaginable.
How could I explain the truth to a five-year-old?
How could I tell her the little companion who'd grown up beside her, who'd guarded her every wobbly step as a toddler, had been put down by her own mother?
My throat locked up tight, clogged by a hard lump I couldn't swallow, I parted my lips, yet no sound would come out.
Finally, I managed to say, my voice raw and broken, "I-It went to a faraway place. A place with endless meaty treats, and lots of other friends to play with all day long."
"When will it come back home?" Sally tilted her small face up, eyes bright with hopeful longing.
"It's never coming back," I said quietly.
Sally's lower lip trembled instantly, tears welling up in her eyes. "Did you send it away because it bit me? Is it a bad dog now?"
I could hold back no longer. Wrapping my arms tightly around my daughter, I broke down into unrestrained tears.
Startled by my outburst, Sally froze for a second before bursting into loud sobs of her own.
Our cries intertwined in the quiet bedroom, heavy with helplessness and despair.
In the middle of our weeping, Sally wriggled gently in my embrace, her voice small and weak. "Mommy, my arm hurts worse now. It itches and stings, like tiny bugs are crawling under my skin."