**The Only Right Choice**
Elizabeth Thornton was a stern and formidable woman. Life had shown her little kindness, taking those she loved most. At forty-nine, she devoted herself to caring for abandoned animals.
The call came while she was at work—her mother had passed. It was Mrs. Wilkins, the neighbour who’d looked after the old lady at Elizabeth’s request.
“Liz, love… your mum’s gone. She lay down for a nap and never woke up. I’ve called the ambulance,” the woman sobbed into the phone.
Trouble never comes alone.
After the funeral, Elizabeth struggled to accept her mother’s absence, still reaching for the phone to call her each evening. They’d spoken every night, sharing their days. Weekends meant a short train ride—just four stops—to visit her mother’s council flat. Her father had left when Elizabeth was eight.
Time dulled the pain. She inherited the flat, though it held little joy. Her late husband had bought them a cottage in Devon, where her mother had loved tending the garden while Elizabeth rested with her family.
Two years later, disaster struck again. An unfamiliar number flashed on her phone one evening.
“Mrs. Thornton? You’ll need to come identify the bodies. There’s been an accident—your husband’s documents were in the car.”
How she endured losing both her husband and son that night, she couldn’t explain. The world turned grey. She forgot how to smile. In her mind, they were just away—surely they’d return soon.
“Lord, help me bear this,” she prayed in the dim light of St. Mary’s, staring up at the stained glass. “My life is nothing but darkness now. Show me how to go on.”
Then, one sleepless night, the answer came: a shelter for stray animals.
“Feeding strays on the street isn’t enough,” she realised. “They need proper care—warmth, safety. My boys would’ve loved that.”
She sold her mother’s flat, scoured council offices for permits, and rallied sponsors. The work consumed her, dulling the grief. By the time “Thornton’s Haven” opened its gates in the countryside, she’d found purpose again.
Emily, a bright-eyed volunteer, managed daily operations. One morning, as she unchained the gate, an elderly woman shuffled into view—frail, leaning on a walking stick, a worn handbag over her arm. The dogs erupted in barks.
“Morning, dear,” the woman said. “Might I see the dogs?”
“Of course, Mrs…?”
“Winifred. Winifred Abbott.”
The old lady moved slowly between the pens, pausing at each. The bolder dogs pressed against the wire, tails wagging—hoping, perhaps, for a home.
Emily watched her linger by a quiet black terrier with a white-tipped ear.
“That’s Patch,” Emily explained. “He’s been like this since he arrived—hit by a car. Doesn’t trust people anymore.”
Winifred’s eyes softened. “Might I take him?”
Emily hesitated. The dog needed care; the woman seemed frail. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow.”
Winifred returned every dawn for a week, whispering to Patch through the bars. On the seventh day, Elizabeth nodded to Emily. “Open the gate.”
To everyone’s shock, Patch trotted out beside Winifred, tail swaying gently.
“We can’t,” Winifred wept when offered permanent adoption. “My daughter’s putting me in a home—selling my flat. They won’t let me keep him.”
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. She tracked down the daughter in a pub basement, surrounded by drunks demanding cash.
That night, clarity struck.
“Come live with me,” Elizabeth urged Winifred the next morning over tea. “Bring Patch. I’ve room—and loneliness enough for both of us.”
The old woman protested, but a year later, their mornings began with shared breakfasts. Winifred, called “Mum” now, glowed with new life.
“Up at dawn again?” Elizabeth would tease.
“Wait till you’re my age, love,” Winifred chuckled, scratching Patch’s ears. “Besides, someone had to feed this lazy lump.”
Of her own daughter, she heard nothing more. And perhaps, Elizabeth thought, that was for the best.
*Sometimes salvation comes not in being saved, but in saving another.*
