For 16 years, I was the perfect housewife, giving up my dreams to support my husband Mark.

My only solace was my 14-year-old dog, Buddy.

When Buddy suddenly became paralyzed, I was terrified and helpless.

It was then that Mark told me to trust him and sent his assistant to take us to the best vet.

He publicly declared that Buddy was family and money was no object.

From then on, he paid for the most expensive treatments.

I had never felt so supported, and I fell completely for his renewed affection.

A week later, Buddy miraculously started walking again, and I prepared a huge thank-you dinner.

Everything changed right before they came home.

I went to Mark's study to find a vintage wine and accidentally overheard his phone call with his coworker, Chloe.

"Are you sure Kate believes the dog is cured?" Chloe's voice echoed through the speaker. "We can't wait any longer to move in together!"

"Do you think I'd let her keep that mutt?" Mark replied coldly.

"But she thinks you saved it!"

"That's exactly why I paid the vet to inject the dog with a temporary stimulant before the lethal dose kicks in tonight."

***

Buddy's hind legs seized and thrashed against the cold hardwood as I knelt beside him. My hands shook too badly to steady him. Beneath my palms, his heart battered against his ribs in an erratic rhythm.

"Shh, I have you," I whispered. I wiped a streak of saliva from his gray muzzle.

Fourteen years earlier, Mark had left for a six-month assignment in London, and the house had turned cavernous in his absence. A two-month-old golden retriever puppy became my anchor. Now that same dog lay paralyzed on the floor, unable to raise himself.

I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder and gripped Buddy's nylon harness, dragging his hundred-pound body toward the living room rug. My sneakers skidded on the floorboards.

The line rang six times. I hit redial.

I pulled again. Buddy let out a sharp whine.

On the seventh attempt, he answered. Applause and cheering exploded through the speaker, and I jerked the phone away from my ear.

"What is it?" Mark hissed, keeping his voice low.

"It's Buddy." I dragged him another two inches onto the carpet, sweat stinging my eyes. "He collapsed. His hind legs are paralyzed. I need you home now. Help me get him to the emergency vet."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Do I sound like I'm kidding?"

"Chloe's daughter is about to get her dance award," Mark said under his breath. "Do you have to ruin the mood right now?"

My hands froze on the harness. "Ruin the mood?"

"Yes, Kate. Ruin the mood."

"Our dog is dying on the floor, Mark."

"He's fourteen. He's ancient. Just let him rest."

"He's seizing. He needs a doctor. He's in pain."

"I refuse to walk out in the middle of the ceremony. It would look terrible to Chloe and the other parents."

"You're at a dance recital for another woman's kid while your own dog—"

"Stop being so dramatic," Mark interrupted. "I'll look at him when I get home."

"Mark, he's unable to stand. I'm not strong enough to lift him by myself."

"Ask a neighbor," he said.

"It's ten o'clock at night. Everyone is asleep."

"Then leave him on the floor. I have to go. They're calling Lily's name."

"You care more about Chloe's daughter than your own family?"

"Don't start this again, Kate. I'm hanging up."

The line went dead.

The black screen blurred in front of me. I swiped a rough hand across my face, pulling up Aiden's contact.

My fifteen-year-old son. Since he was old enough to skate, I had risen at five for his pregame meals and driven him to tournaments across three states. Now he was a six-foot athlete, strong enough to lift a dog.

The phone rang twice before he answered. Heavy bass music thumped in the background.

"Mom, what?" Aiden groaned over the noise.

"Aiden, I need you home." My voice broke. "Buddy is paralyzed. I can't lift him into the car alone."

Aiden scoffed. The sound cut right through the speaker. "Seriously? I'm at the post-game party."

"Please. I just need you to come lift him into the back seat. You can go right back to the party."

"Are you deaf? I'm hanging out with my friends."

"Your dog can't walk, Aiden."

"Buddy is old anyway. You really want to ruin everyone's night just for a dog?"

The words knocked the breath out of me. "He's been there for you since you were a baby."

"Tell Dad to do it."

"Your father refused to come."

"Well, neither am I. I'm not missing this party to deal with a dying dog."

"Aiden, please. He's terrified. He keeps looking for you."

"Mom, you're being ridiculous. He's just a dog."

"He slept at the foot of your bed for ten years. He guarded your crib."

"Yeah, and now he's ancient. What do you expect me to do? Magically heal him?"

"I expect you to act like you care."

"Stop calling me. You're embarrassing me in front of the guys."

The call dropped.

The house fell silent except for Buddy's rapid, shallow panting.

I tasted copper. I had bitten through my lower lip, and blood trickled down my chin.

"Okay, buddy," I whispered. I wiped the blood away with the back of my hand. "Just you and me."

I pulled the winter blanket from the sofa and rolled his limp body onto its center. Gathering the four corners, I twisted them into a makeshift handle.

I planted my feet and hauled upward. Pain tore through my shoulders as the makeshift stretcher scraped across the floor like sandpaper.

"Hold on, Buddy," I muttered. Sweat dripped down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

I pulled him toward the front door. I nudged the door open with my hip. The cold night air hit my face, biting into my flushed skin.

At the porch steps, the blanket bumped over the concrete. I leaned back with my full weight to keep him from tumbling.

We reached the driveway. Somehow, I wrestled him into the back seat, climbed behind the wheel, and drove.

"Somebody help me!" I screamed. I kicked the glass door of the clinic wide open.

The door rebounded and clipped my shoulder. I ignored the sting and dragged the blanket across the linoleum.

A woman in blue scrubs bolted from behind the reception desk. "Get a gurney!" she yelled over her shoulder.

"He can't stand," I gasped. "He's seizing."

"Lift on three," a male vet said. He appeared beside us and grabbed the front corners of the blanket. "One, two, three."

They hoisted Buddy onto the stainless-steel examination table. The metal rang beneath his weight, and a weak, rattling whine escaped him.

"What is his name?" the vet asked. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and shined it into Buddy's cloudy eyes.

"Buddy. He's fourteen."

"Any underlying conditions?"

"Arthritis," I answered quickly. "But tonight he just collapsed. His hind legs stopped working."

The vet pressed a stethoscope to the dog's ribs. Silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. The only sound in the room was the hum of the fluorescent lights.

"His heart rate is plummeting," the vet said. He dropped the stethoscope around his neck. "His pupils aren't responding."

"Fix him," I said. "Give him fluids. Operate. Do anything."

The vet shook his head. "His organs are shutting down. I'm so sorry."

"Are you sure?"

"There's nothing we can do to reverse this."

"How much time does he have?" I asked.

"Minutes," the vet replied gently. "He's suffering."

"Do it," I whispered. "Stop the pain."

"I need you to sign this consent form first," the receptionist said. She slid a clipboard onto the edge of the steel table.

I took the pen, my hand shaking as I scrawled my name across the bottom line.

The nurse shaved a small patch of fur on Buddy's front leg. The vet uncapped a syringe filled with bright pink liquid.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Wait," I said.

I leaned over the table. I pressed my cheek against Buddy's gray forehead. His fur smelled like old leaves and dust.

"You're a good boy," I murmured into his ear. "You can sleep now."

"I'm giving the injection now," the vet said softly.

The plunger went down. I kept my face buried in his fur. The erratic thumping against my palms slowed, stuttered, and vanished. The heart monitor hummed a single continuous tone.

"He's gone," the vet said.

I stood before the unbroken line on the screen.

I didn't reach for my phone. I didn't call Mark or text Aiden. It sat silent in my pocket while sixteen years of marriage—and the mother I had been for fifteen years—ended at that monitor.

A dry, hacking laugh escaped my throat. The sound echoed off the tile walls, startling the nurse.

"Ma'am?" she asked, stepping back.

"I'm fine." I wiped my dry eyes. "Please arrange a private cremation. I'll wait."

"Do you want a moment alone with him?" the vet asked.

"No. He isn't in there anymore."

I walked out of the examination room. I sat on a cracked vinyl bench in the waiting area. A clock ticked above the reception desk.

"The overnight technician is here," the receptionist said from behind the partition. "It will take about ninety minutes."

"I'll wait," I replied.

"Are you waiting on a ride, ma'am?"

"No. I drove myself."

"It's just you tonight?"

"Yes. Just me."

My phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it out. A social media notification flashed across the locked screen. Sarah, a neighbor from two streets over, had tagged Mark in a post.

I tapped the alert. The screen loaded a brightly lit photograph.

Mark stood in the center of a crowded auditorium lobby. His arm wrapped tightly around Chloe's waist. On his other side stood Aiden, wearing his varsity hockey jacket, grinning widely. Chloe's daughter, Lily, stood in front of them, holding a towering gold dance trophy.

They all beamed at the camera.

I read the caption beneath the photo.

"So glad I ran into these guys! Perfect family night celebrating Lily's big win!"

My thumb hovered over the image. Mark had refused to leave the recital. Aiden had claimed he was at a post-game party with his teammates.

"You're embarrassing me in front of the guys," Aiden had said on the phone.

"Do you have to ruin the mood right now?" Mark had hissed.

They were together. Playing house with another woman while I dragged our dying dog across the concrete driveway.

"Perfect family night," I read aloud.

I pressed the power button, and the screen went black. My jaw clenched until my teeth ached. No tears came. There was only a cold, hollow space where my family had been.

I opened my messages. I selected the group chat containing Mark and Aiden.

I typed three words: "Buddy is dead."

I hit send. I blocked both of their numbers.

Footsteps approached. The nurse from the examination room stopped in front of the bench.

"Mrs. Evans?" she asked softly.

"Yes," I replied. I stood up.

She held out a smooth wooden urn. On top rested a clear bag containing Buddy's faded red collar and his rabies tag.

"He's ready to go home," she said.

I took the urn. The wood felt icy against my palms. "Thank you."

"Take all the time you need," she offered. She pointed toward the exit. "The front doors lock automatically, but you can push them open from the inside."

"I'm leaving now."

I turned toward the exit. I tucked the plastic bag into my coat pocket and gripped the wooden box with both hands.

The glass doors burst open.

The metal frames slammed against the brick walls. A tall man in a canvas work jacket—ADAM stitched above the pocket—charged into the lobby. His boots pounded the linoleum, and blood soaked the front of his shirt.

In his arms, he carried a large, mangled black dog.

"Doctor, save him!" the man roared, his voice echoing through the quiet clinic.

"Tie it above the wound," I ordered.

I shoved the blue medical tourniquet into the man's bloody palm.

He snatched the rubber strap. He wrapped it tight around the black dog's thigh. "Thank you," he grunted, pressing his entire body weight against the gash. "Hold on, buddy. Just hold on."

"Get a gurney out here!" the receptionist yelled. She sprinted from behind the glass partition, her sneakers squeaking against the wet floor.

"He's losing too much blood." The man's hands shook. "I found him on the side of the highway. Someone hit him and just kept driving."

"Keep the pressure steady," I told him. "Don't let up for a second. If you loosen it, he bleeds out."

"I have it," he said. He locked his eyes onto mine. His gaze was frantic but grateful. "Are you a vet?"

"No." The word came out hollow. "I just know how quickly they can slip away."

The vet pushed through the swinging doors. He took one look at the pool of dark red spreading across the linoleum. "Bring him into room two. Now."

"I have him," the man said, lifting the animal. "I have you, I promise."

"Sir, you can't go back there," the receptionist warned.

"Try and stop me," he fired back, kicking the swinging door open with his heavy work boot.

When they disappeared down the hallway, I retrieved the wooden urn from the vinyl bench. I walked out the front doors into the freezing wind.

Two hours later, I pushed my front door open.

The house sat in total darkness.

"I'm home," I said out loud.

No clicking nails on the hardwood. No tail thumping against the baseboards. Just silence.

I flicked the entryway switch. The overhead light illuminated the empty orthopedic dog bed tucked under the console table. Faded golden hair clung to the gray fabric.

I passed the living room without stopping. I marched straight down the hallway into Mark's home office. I unlocked the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk.

I pulled out the manila envelope. I had printed the documents six months ago, right after I found the first hotel receipt in Mark's coat pocket.

I slid the crisp white pages out.

"Petition for Dissolution of Marriage," I read aloud.

I grabbed a pen from the desk caddy. I signed my name on the bottom line. The ink bled slightly into the paper.

My phone rang in my jacket pocket. It was an unknown number, but the local area code gave it away. Mark using someone else's phone.

I answered it. "Speak."

"What kind of sick joke is this?" Mark demanded. His voice echoed slightly, like he was standing in a parking garage.

"Buddy is dead," I said flatly.

"You're lying to punish me for not leaving the recital," he snapped.