Part 5: The Message I Didn’t Expect
The message came on a Wednesday.
It was one of those gray mornings where the sky forgets how to be anything but tired. Hope and I had just come back from the park, her paws damp with dew, her tail carrying tiny burrs like badges.
I was drinking coffee in my oversized mug that said Still Becoming, scrolling absentmindedly through emails when I saw it.
Subject: Hey
From: Evan Granger
I stared at it for a long time.
I didn’t click right away. I didn’t breathe, either.
The last time I’d heard from him was almost nine months ago—an apologetic, vague text that said he “hoped I was okay” and “didn’t mean to hurt me.” No actual questions. No acknowledgment of how deep the cut had gone.
But now… hey?
That was the subject line?
Not I’m sorry. Not Can we talk. Just… hey.
Hope padded into the room and dropped her rubber bone at my feet. She wagged once, tentatively, waiting.
“I don’t think I can open it,” I whispered.
She stared up at me, then gently placed her paw on my foot.
I clicked.
The email was short.
Hey Maren,
I know this is probably unwelcome. I saw a photo of you with a dog—Hope, I think? Madeline shared something on her story.
I just wanted to say… you look good. Peaceful.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what I did.
I’d like to talk, if you’re open to it.
If not, I understand.
—E
I reread it twice, expecting the words to shift. To offer something more concrete. A revelation. A confession. A regret that felt earned.
But all I felt was… hollow.
Not angry. Not broken. Just tired.
I closed the laptop and stood. “We’re going for a walk.”
Hope didn’t need telling twice.
—
We took the long route down the Back Cove trail, the one that loops along the water and smells like seaweed and memory. I let the leash go slack, and Hope trotted ahead, ears perked, nose working overtime like the air was full of invisible stories.
I thought about what I’d say if I responded to Evan.
Then I thought about why I would respond.
And I couldn’t come up with a single reason that felt right.
Was it closure?
Validation?
Was there still a part of me waiting to be chosen?
We stopped at the edge of the wooden bridge, where the tide pushed gently against the rocks below. The sky had darkened, the way it does before spring rain.
I crouched beside Hope and buried my face in her scruff.
“I don’t want to go back,” I said. “Even in words.”
She leaned into me, warm and solid.
That’s when I noticed it—her collar was twisted slightly. I reached to straighten it, fingers brushing over the tag.
WORTH IT.
And just like that, I remembered something I hadn’t thought about in months.
The last fight.
It wasn’t loud. That wasn’t Evan’s way. It was subtle. Surgical.
I had been crying—quietly, shamefully—after finding yet another late-night message thread. Not quite cheating. But not love, either. I had asked, “Do you even want to be here?”
And he had said:
“I just think you expect too much. It’s exhausting.”
It’s exhausting.
Like my heart was a burden.
Like asking to be chosen was too much.
Hope pressed her forehead against mine now, her breathing even.
And I realized—I wasn’t mad at Evan anymore.
I was mad that I ever believed him.
—
By the time we got home, the rain had started. Not hard, just soft and steady.
Hope did her usual circle-dance on the rug before settling into her usual post-walk nap. I sat on the floor beside her, my back against the couch, and opened my laptop again.
Evan’s message blinked like it was waiting for me to rewrite my story.
But I didn’t reply.
Instead, I opened a new email.
To: Myself
Subject: Things You Know Now
And I wrote:
You are not too much.
You are not exhausting.
You are not something to walk away from.
You are the soft morning light. The warm dog sigh. The steady beat of someone starting over.
You are worth it.
Still. Always.
I hit send. Just so it would land somewhere.
—
That night, I lit a candle and made soup from scratch. I listened to a playlist that wasn’t curated by him. Hope snored quietly from her spot on the rug.
I didn’t feel triumphant. I didn’t feel powerful.
But I felt… mine.
And that was everything.
Part 6: The Letter That Waited
The envelope was cream-colored and soft at the edges, like it had been handled too many times.
No return address. Just my name, written in gentle, looping script.
Maren Benson
Portland, Maine
At first, I thought it was a thank-you note. Maybe from someone who’d heard my story at the Blue Spoon. Maybe from a student. I opened it while Hope chewed on her morning carrot.
Inside was a single page, folded twice. No fancy stationery. No date. Just this:
If you’re reading this, she’s yours now.
Her name is Hope, but you probably know that already. She doesn’t do tricks. She doesn’t like loud music. She hates storms. But she knows heartbreak. And she knows how to stay when it matters.
I found her after leaving someone who made me feel invisible. I was forty-one and thought I had already missed my life. But Hope… she anchored me. Not back to who I was. But forward—to who I could be.
There were nights I cried into her fur and told her all the things I never said aloud. She listened. She stayed. She reminded me that I was worth loving—even by myself.
When I had to let her go, it broke me. But I believed—still believe—that she would find the next one. And that maybe, somehow, we’re all connected. One broken woman to another. Healing each other without ever meeting.
So here it is: if you’re holding this letter, I see you. I believe in you. And I hope Hope shows you what she showed me.
You are worth it.
—A friend who left, but stayed in another way
I sat very still.
Hope looked up at me, head tilted.
And the tears came—not sharp, but soft. Not because I was sad, but because I felt… seen.
By a stranger.
By someone who had loved this dog before me. Someone who had named her not with sentiment, but with truth. Someone who understood what it meant to be cracked open and still rise.
I read the letter again. And again.
Then I laid it on the kitchen table like a map I didn’t know I’d needed.
Hope rested her head on my foot.
“Do you remember her?” I asked. “Do you still carry her in you, the way I will carry you?”
Her eyes blinked slowly, like maybe yes.
—
Later that day, I walked to the shelter.
Not because I needed anything, but because I had to ask.
The volunteer at the front desk recognized me.
“Hope’s mom, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I got a letter… from her previous owner. There was no name, but I just wondered… is there a record of who she was?”
She looked hesitant. “We’re not supposed to share personal info.”
“Not even a first name?”
She studied me, then typed something quietly into the system.
After a moment, she nodded.
“Her name was Claire.”
“Claire,” I repeated. The name settled in my chest like warm tea.
“She dropped Hope off about eight months ago,” the woman said. “She cried so hard we had to give her a blanket from the back to take with her. She said she was moving in with her sister after losing everything.”
I blinked. “Everything?”
“She said she was starting over. But she wanted Hope to keep helping people. Said the dog was magic.”
She smiled. “Seems like she was right.”
—
That night, I lit a candle for Claire.
Not in a ceremonial way. Not religious. Just… gratitude.
For the life she made space for me to step into. For the healing passed from her hands to mine, through this shaggy, one-eared mutt who never looked away.
Hope curled against me on the couch, breathing slow and deep.
The letter stayed on my nightstand that night.
I reread it like scripture before bed.
Not because I needed answers.
But because I finally had something better.
Proof that healing leaves breadcrumbs.
That love—real love—echoes.
That the things we let go of sometimes circle back… not to haunt us, but to hold us.
And in that stillness, I whispered into the dark:
“Thank you, Claire.”
Hope didn’t stir.
But somehow, I felt her hear it.