The Only Right Choice
Elizabeth Hardwick was a stern and unyielding woman. Life had dealt her harsh blows—hardship and the loss of those dearest to her. It had never shown her mercy. Now, at forty-nine, she devoted herself to caring for abandoned animals.
The news of her mother’s death came while she was at work. It was her mother’s neighbour, who had been looking after the elderly woman at Elizabeth’s request, who called.
“Lizzie, your mother’s gone,” the neighbour said, her voice trembling. “She lay down for a nap after lunch and never woke. I’ve called for help—they’ll be here soon.”
Misfortune never comes alone.
After the funeral, Elizabeth struggled to accept that her mother was gone. She kept reaching for the phone to call her. Every evening, without fail, she had rung her mother to share news and hear her voice. On weekends, she would take the tram four stops to visit. Her mother had lived in a two-bedroom flat; her father had left when Elizabeth was eight, and they had never heard from him again.
In time, she adjusted. She transferred the flat into her own name. She and her husband had a cottage in the countryside, and while her mother was alive, she had loved spending summers there, tending the garden. Those visits had been a respite for Elizabeth—her mother kept the place in order while she, her husband, and their son relaxed.
Two years after her mother’s passing, tragedy struck again. One evening, an unfamiliar number flashed on her phone.
“Is this Elizabeth Hardwick?” a voice asked. “You’ll need to come in for identification. There’s been an accident—your husband’s documents were found in the car.”
How she endured the deaths of her husband and son in that crash, she could never explain, even to herself. The world turned grey. She forgot how to smile. Her thoughts were always with them, as if they had simply gone away and would return any moment. For a long while, she lived in that delusion.
“Lord, help me bear this,” she prayed in the quiet of the church, her eyes fixed on the stained-glass saints. “How do I go on? I’ve lost everyone. Show me what to do.”
Then, one sleepless night, an idea came to her: she would build a shelter for stray animals.
“I see them on the streets every day,” she thought. “A handful of scraps isn’t enough. They need proper care—a safe place. My husband and son would have approved. They loved animals too.”
To fund the shelter, she sold her mother’s flat. She sought sponsors, petitioned councils, and secured permits to build outside the city. Elizabeth was a woman of iron will, and in this mission, she found solace from her grief. The work consumed her, dulling the pain.
In time, the shelter became a reality. Elizabeth was its director, and volunteers joined her cause. The pens filled with dogs and cats, all fed, healed, and loved. Among the helpers was Emily, a young woman with a soft spot for every creature.
One morning, as Emily unlocked the gates, she spotted an elderly woman shuffling toward her, leaning on a cane, clutching a worn-out handbag. The woman moved slowly, as though each step required careful thought. The dogs barked wildly at the stranger.
“Good morning, dear,” the old woman said. “Might I have a look at the dogs?”
“Of course,” Emily replied warmly.
The woman—Clara Whitmore—paused at each pen, murmuring to the animals. The bolder dogs pawed at the fences, desperate for attention. Emily watched her, then approached.
“Looking for a companion? We’ve cats as well,” she offered.
Clara shook her head absently, her gaze settling on a small black-and-white mongrel curled in the corner of a pen. The dog didn’t wag its tail or rush to greet her.
“That’s Patch,” Emily sighed. “He’s been like that since he arrived. Hit by a car, though he’s healed now. Too scared to leave the pen.”
Clara’s eyes softened. “May I take him?”
Emily hesitated. Patch needed care, and Clara seemed frail.
“Let’s discuss it tomorrow,” she suggested.
True to her word, Clara returned the next morning. But Emily had to refuse. “We can’t let you take him. He needs more attention than you might manage.”
Clara nodded silently and turned away.
Yet she came back the following day—and the next, and the next. For a week, she stood by Patch’s pen, whispering to him. And then, something miraculous happened. When the gate was opened, Patch stepped out, tail wagging, and walked beside Clara as if he had known her all his life.
At last, Elizabeth spoke. “He’s yours, Clara. Take him home.”
But Clara’s face crumpled. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“Why not? You wanted him before.”
Tears spilled down Clara’s cheeks. “My daughter—Violet—she’s putting me in a home. Selling my flat. They won’t let me keep him.”
Elizabeth and Emily were stunned. How could a child abandon her own mother? Elizabeth resolved to speak to Violet—but the encounter only deepened her horror. She found the woman in a dingy basement, drunk among equally wasted companions. They jeered at Elizabeth, demanding money.
The journey home was spent fighting tears. That night, as Elizabeth lay awake, an answer came to her.
The next morning, she waited for Clara with a proposal.
“Come live with me,” she said firmly. “Bring Patch. I have a large house—too empty now. You won’t be a burden. You’ll be family.”
Clara shook her head fiercely. “I couldn’t impose—”
“You’re not. You’ll be the mother I lost.”
Nearly a year passed. Each morning, Elizabeth found breakfast waiting—hot tea, buttered toast—while Clara sat at the kitchen table, bright-eyed.
“Up before dawn again,” Elizabeth chided gently.
“At my age, sleep’s a stranger,” Clara chuckled. “Patch and I have already had our walk.”
They ate together, content. Clara had found youth in kindness; Elizabeth, a reason to smile again. As for Violet—she was never mentioned. Some wounds were best left unspoken.
