“What on earth were you thinking, Mum? Adopting a rescue dog?” The daughters voice crackled through the phone. “A sick old one at that! Have you lost your mind? Couldnt you have taken up dancing again?”
Margaret Whitmore stood by the window, watching snowflakes swirl and settle on rooftops and tree branches. It had become a habit of late. Once, shed waited for her husbands late returns, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. The kitchen would glow with soft light, dinner on the table, their conversations lingering over steaming cups of tea…
Gradually, the words between them dried up. He came home later still, avoiding her gaze, his replies clipped. Then, one evening
“Margaret, I need to tell you… Ive met someone else. I want a divorce.”
“A divorce? And what about me? What am I supposed to do?” A sharp pain lanced beneath her shoulder blade.
“Were adults. The children are grownthey have their own lives. Weve had thirty years. But were not old. Look at usjust past fifty. I want something new, something fresh.”
“So Im the past, am I? Outdated?” she murmured, dazed.
“Dont exaggerate. Youre not old… But over there, I feel like Im thirty again. Forgive meI just want to be happy.” He kissed the top of her head and vanished into the bathroom.
He washed away the remnants of their marriage while Margaret felt the weight of a heavy, hollow sorrow settle on her shoulders.
Betrayal. Was there anything more bitter?
Time slipped by unnoticedthe divorce, her husband gone to his new life. Margaret drifted through grey routines. Shed lived for her children, for him. Their worries had been hers, their joys her triumphs. And now?
She spent hours at the window. Sometimes, she peered into a small hand mirror, a keepsake from her grandmother. A sad-eyed woman stared backa stray tear caught in the creases, silver threads at her temples.
She avoided the full-length mirror.
“Mum, you ought to find a hobby,” her daughters brisk tone betrayed impatience.
“Like what, love?” Her own voice faded into the phone static.
“Oh, I dont know. Reading, dancing for the over-fifties, gallery trips.”
“Yes, for the over-fifties. Thats me nowover.” Margaret couldnt muster the energy to finish.
“Oh, Mumsorry, Ive got to dash.”
Her son, Edward, understood better:
“Mum, Im truly sorry about all this. Isabelle and Id love to visitmaybe for New Years? Itll do you good.”
Margaret adored her children, but now she saw how differently they loved.
*****
One evening, scrolling online, she spotted an ad:
“Open day at Barkwell Rescue Centre! Bring family, friendsour dogs cant wait to meet you! Find us at…”
It mentioned donationsblankets, towels, old linens.
Margaret read it twice.
“Blankets, old sheets, towels… Ive plenty to sort. Might as well give them purpose,” she murmured into the quiet night.
At the window, she wondered what else she could spare from her tight budget.
Ten days later, she stood at the rescue centres gates, arms laden with sacks of bedding. A taxi driver helped unload them. Volunteers bustled about, guiding visitors through the kennels, sharing each dogs story.
Margaret returned home exhausted.
“Rightshower, supper, sofa. Ill think on it later.”
But later never came. The images haunted herthe cages, the dogs, their eyes. Eyes just like the ones in her little mirrorfull of sorrow and distrust for happiness.
One dog stood out: an elderly, grey-muzzled spaniel named Duchess. She lay curled in a corner, silent.
“Duchess is twelve. Her owner surrendered her when she grew old. With care, she might have a few good years left… but no one wants a sick old dog,” the volunteer sighed before moving on.
Margaret lingered. Duchess didnt stir, lying like a discarded toy on a worn blanket.
All week at work, Margaret thought of her. Suddenly, a fierce energy surgedshe worked with renewed vigor.
“Duchess is my reflection. Im not so old. But alone. The children are gone, my husband tossed me aside like yesterdays news. But Im not rubbishno!”
Determined, she rang the centre.
“Hello! I visited your open dayyou showed me Duchess, the old spaniel? Might I see her again?”
“Duchess? How wonderful! Youre the only one who stopped by her pen. Come Saturday.”
That evening, Margaret watched a man in the courtyard play fetch with a large retriever. The dog bounded joyfully, returning the ball again and again to his masters fond strokes.
Saturday arrived.
“Hello, Duchess.” Margaret knelt, but the dog remained still. She sat cross-legged on the concrete in old jeans and began to speaksoftly at firstof her empty house, her grown children. An hour passed. Tentatively, she reached out, brushing Duchesss head.
The spaniel sighed, resting her muzzle on Margarets knee.
Before leaving, Margaret met the dogs brown gazehopeful, questioning: *Was this goodbye?*
“Wait for me,” she whispered. Then, to the volunteer: “Id like to adopt her.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. You said dogs like her have little chance. I want to give her one.”
“Margaret, be warnedDuchess needs medicine, vet visits. Its costly.”
“I raised two children. I can manage this. Lets try.”
That night, Margaret carried Duchess home, wrapped in a towel.
“Here we are, girl. Our fresh start.”
She took leave for vet appointmentspills, claw trims, tooth extractions. Duchess proved gentle and house-trained quickly. They walked at dawn and dusk, avoiding neighbours until the dog grew confident.
*****
“Mum, are you mad? A rescue dog? An elderly, ill one?” Her daughters shriek pierced the line.
“Perfectly sane, thank you.”
“But why not ballroom dancing?!”
“Darling, Im fifty-threehealthy, independent, and quite stylish. Didnt I teach you better?”
“But”
“No buts. Your father left me for a girl barely out of school. Respect my choices.”
Her son, though, was delighted:
“Mum, youre brilliant! Id never have guessed! But will you manage?”
“Edward, I raised you and your sister. Ill manage. The centres promised support.”
She didnt mention the man shed met on their twilight walksHenry, a widower whod adopted a scruffy terrier named Buster from the same rescue.
*****
“Mum, may we visit? Id love you to meet Isabelle properly. Shes as daft as you!”
Margaret laughed. “Do come. Well be waiting.”
On New Years Eve, the doorbell chimedtwo dogs pricked their ears. Henry and Buster had joined Margaret and Duchess for the celebration.
Edward gaped at the lively gathering. “Mum, I cant waitthis is Isabelle. Were engaged, and youll be a grandmother soon! Ohand wed like a rescue pup. A small one, perhaps… with the baby coming.”
That night, no window held sadnesslaughter, music, and fireworks filled the air. Even at the rescue centre, the dogs whod yet to find homes seemed to wait a little brighter.
Heres to happinessfor all of us! And from my dear Biscuit (whos quite forgotten his shelter days), warmest wishes. May your hearts be as full as ours!
