The Only Right Choice
Margaret Whitmore was a stern and unyielding woman. Life had dealt her harsh blows—loss and hardship had shaped her. By forty-nine, she found solace in caring for abandoned animals, the only tenderness left in her world.
The call came while she was at work. It was her mother’s neighbour, the one who checked in on the old woman at Margaret’s request.
“Margaret, love… your mum’s gone. Laid down after lunch and never woke up. I’ve rung for the ambulance—they’re on their way,” the neighbour wept.
Trouble never comes alone.
After the funeral, Margaret kept reaching for the phone, forgetting her mother was gone. They’d spoken every evening, shared news, laughed. Weekends meant a short tram ride—just four stops—to her mother’s flat. The two-bedroom had been empty since her father left when Margaret was eight.
Time passed. The flat became hers. She and her husband had a cottage where her mother loved to tend the garden in summer. Those visits had been Margaret’s respite—her mother’s hands in the soil, her son playing in the grass.
Two years later, another call shattered her. An unfamiliar voice, cold and official:
“Margaret Whitmore? You’ll need to come identify the bodies. There’s been an accident. Your husband’s documents were found in the car.”
How she endured the deaths of her husband and son, she couldn’t say. The world turned grey. Smiles became foreign. She lived in a haze, half-expecting them to walk through the door any moment.
“God, help me…” she whispered in the dim light of the church, staring at the stained glass. “How do I go on? I’ve lost everyone. Show me what to do.”
Then, one sleepless night, an idea struck like lightning: a sanctuary for stray animals.
“I see them on the streets—hungry, forgotten. Feeding them isn’t enough. They need a home. My boys would’ve loved that.”
She sold her mother’s flat, petitioned councils, begged sponsors. The work consumed her, dulling the grief. By the time “Whitmore’s Haven” opened its gates, Margaret had become its fierce guardian. Volunteers flocked to help—among them, Emily, a young woman with a heart for every creature.
The Strange Visitor
One morning, as Emily unlocked the gates, an old woman approached—silver-haired, leaning on a cane, a worn satchel in hand. Her steps were slow, deliberate, as though weighing some great decision.
The dogs erupted in barks.
“Good morning, dear,” the woman said softly. “Might I see the dogs?”
Emily smiled. “Of course, Mrs…?”
“Agnes. Agnes Holloway.”
The old woman moved down the rows of kennels, peering into each. The bolder dogs pressed against the bars, tails wagging, desperate for attention. Emily watched her pause at one enclosure—a small black mongrel with a white-tipped ear, curled in the far corner.
“That’s Shadow,” Emily sighed. “He’s been like that since he arrived. Hit by a car. Doesn’t trust anyone.”
Agnes’s voice trembled. “Can I take him home?”
Emily hesitated. The woman was frail; Shadow needed care. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow.”
Agnes returned the next day—and the next. For a week, she stood by Shadow’s kennel, whispering secrets only he seemed to hear. Then, on Margaret’s orders, Emily opened the gate.
The dog hesitated—then stood. For the first time, he followed someone out.
Their walks became routine. Silent, slow, a wordless understanding between them.
“Take him,” Margaret urged one day.
Agnes burst into tears. “I can’t.”
Emily guided her inside, pressed a glass of water into her shaking hands.
“My daughter,” Agnes choked out. “She’s selling my flat. Sending me to a home. They won’t let me keep him.”
Margaret’s blood ran cold. She tracked down the daughter—found her in a pub’s back room, surrounded by bottles and sneers. The confrontation left her shaking.
That night, lying awake, Margaret knew what to do.
She met Agnes at the sanctuary the next morning, tea steaming between them.
“Move in with me,” she said. “Bring Shadow. I’ve got a big house—too empty now. We’ll be family.”
Agnes protested, but Margaret insisted. “You’d be doing me a kindness.”
A year later, mornings began with the scent of toast and tea. Agnes, spry as a sparrow, would already have taken Shadow for his walk.
“You’re up with the birds again, Mum,” Margaret would chide.
“At my age, sleep’s a luxury,” Agnes would laugh, eyes bright.
She never spoke of her daughter. Some wounds heal better left untouched.
