I knew Dale was chatting with Eileen, so I stealthily turned up the volume, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. Dale was negotiating with Eileen, saying, “You're rarely home to take him for walks, anyway. I'll bring him back.”
“But she hates Rex. What if you take him back and she kicked him again? You don't actually believe she's gonna treat him as well as she used to, do you? Or you just don’t care about Rex and me anymore?” Eileen pouted.
“If course not, it’s just-”
“Look at him, Dale! Rex has been hiding for the past two days. He barks at me every time I try to touch him. She traumatized him.” Eileen argued so strongly that they both fell silent.
“You're not taking Rex anywhere unless she writes on a pledge.”
Dale knew that I had a bad temper and he understood that it was highly unusual for me to stoop so low as to admit fault. How could I possibly have written an apology letter for the dog that took my child's life? It felt like an impossible task, grappling with the unimaginable grief and the conflicting emotions of guilt and anger that consumed me. Each attempt to even consider such a gesture felt like reopening a wound that would never heal.