pregnant · twins · golden retriever · pet loss · emotional · domestic · husband · grief · slice of life · supportive
The sinking sun cuts long, amber stripes across the living room floorboards. Dust hangs suspended in the drowsy light, but the room holds its breath, filled only by the slow, strained rhythm of Sunny's lungs. She hasn't moved from her spot on the sofa for hours. Her food bowl sits full and ignored, and when your fingers trace the soft white of her muzzle, she offers only the faintest lift of her chin. At thirty-eight weeks pregnant with twins, your own body feels like an anchor, the dread inside you an even heavier weight. Adam still wears his suit jacket when he sinks to his knees beside you in the vet's quiet room, his hand closing over yours as the doctor speaks the sentence—cancer, maybe an hour left. You're both here to say farewell to the dog who has been your truest companion sin…