The Only Right Choice
Margaret Hartley was a stern and serious woman. Life hadn’t been kind to her—she’d faced hardships and the loss of loved ones, with no breaks along the way. Now, at forty-nine, she dedicated herself to caring for abandoned animals.
The call about her mother’s death came while she was at work. It was her mother’s neighbor, the one Margaret had asked to check in on her.
“Margaret, love… your mum’s gone. She lay down for a nap after lunch and never woke up. I’ve called an ambulance—they’re on their way,” the neighbor said, her voice shaking.
Trouble never comes alone.
After the funeral, Margaret struggled to accept that her mother was gone. She kept reaching for the phone to call her, like she always did every evening, sharing news and checking in. Weekends had been for visits—just four stops on the bus to her mum’s little two-bedroom flat. Her father had left when she was eight, and her mother had raised her alone.
Eventually, she adjusted. She transferred the flat into her name. She and her husband had a cottage, and her mother had loved spending summers there, tending the garden. It had been a relief—when Margaret, her husband, and their son visited, her mother kept the place in order, leaving Margaret free to relax.
Two years after her mother’s death, another blow struck. One evening, an unfamiliar number flashed on her phone.
“Margaret Hartley? You need to come for identification,” the voice said, giving an address. “There’s been an accident. Your husband’s documents were in the car.”
How she survived the loss of her husband and son in that crash, she couldn’t explain—not even to herself. The world turned grey. She forgot how to smile. Her thoughts were always with them, as if they’d just gone away and would walk back in any moment.
“Lord, help me through this… How do I bear it? I’ve lost everyone. Show me how to go on,” she prayed in church, staring at the stained-glass windows. “My life is nothing but darkness now.”
Time passed. Then one night, she woke with an idea: she’d build a shelter for stray animals.
“I see them on the streets—I feed them when I can, but it’s not enough. A proper shelter, where they’re safe and cared for—that’s what they need. My husband and son would’ve loved that. They adored animals.”
To fund it, she sold her mother’s flat. She hunted for sponsors, navigated endless red tape for permits to build outside London. Margaret was stubborn—she got things done. And in this mission, she found an escape from her grief. The work consumed her, dulling the pain.
Soon, Margaret Hartley was the director of an animal shelter, surrounded by like-minded people. Dozens of dogs and cats filled the kennels, fed, healed, and loved. Among the volunteers was Emily, a young woman who adored every creature there.
A Strange Visitor
One morning, as Emily unlocked the gates, she spotted an elderly woman approaching—silver-haired, leaning on a cane, clutching a worn-out handbag. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if weighing every step.
The dogs erupted in barks at the sight of her.
“Hello, dear,” the woman said softly. “Might I see the dogs?”
“Good morning! Of course, come in.”
The woman wandered between the kennels, peering at each dog. The bolder ones pressed against the gates, wagging tails, desperate for attention—maybe hoping she’d take them home.
Emily watched, then approached. “Can I help? What’s your name? Looking for a dog? We’ve got cats too, if you’d like.”
“Clara. Clara Whitmore,” the woman murmured, still studying the dogs, whispering to them under her breath.
Half an hour later, Clara stopped at one kennel. Inside sat a small, black-and-white mongrel, curled in the corner. He didn’t wag or jump—just watched, quiet and sad.
“That’s Shadow,” Emily sighed.
“What’s wrong with him?” Clara asked.
“He’s been like this since he arrived. A car hit him—he’s healed, but he’s terrified. Won’t leave the kennel.”
“May I take him?”
Emily hesitated. Clara seemed frail; Shadow needed care.
“Let’s think about it. Could you come back tomorrow?”
“I will,” Clara promised, then shuffled away.
True to her word, she returned the next morning. Emily met her at the gate.
“Clara, we’ve talked it over—we can’t let you take Shadow. He needs more care than you might manage at your age. I’m sorry.”
Clara nodded silently, turned, and left.
A Kindred Spirit
The next day, Clara was back, standing at Shadow’s kennel, whispering to him. He sat still, unmoved. This went on for days—Clara visiting, murmuring to Shadow as if he understood.
Finally, Margaret said to Emily, “Open the kennel. Let’s see if he responds to her.”
Clara stepped inside, stroked Shadow’s head—and he stood. For the first time, he walked out, tail wagging, staying close to Clara. The staff stared in disbelief.
Their walks became routine. Clara came daily, and they strolled in silence, understanding each other without words.
One day, Margaret said, “Clara, Shadow’s yours. Take him home.”
“I can’t,” Clara whispered, tears welling.
“But you wanted him! What’s changed?”
Clara broke down. Emily led her inside, handed her water.
“My daughter, Valerie… She drinks. She’s putting me in a care home, selling my flat. I didn’t know—that’s why I wanted Shadow. But they won’t let me take him.”
Margaret and Emily were stunned.
“Let me talk to her,” Margaret offered.
Clara shook her head. “She won’t listen. She just wants the money.”
Margaret tried anyway—tracking Valerie to a dingy basement, surrounded by drunks who jeered at her.
The Answer
Margaret cried all the way home. She lived in the spacious house her husband had built, but it felt empty.
“I’ve seen people abandon dogs… but their own mother?”
That night, an idea came—clear and sure. By morning, she’d made her decision.
At the shelter, she waited for Clara, then invited her for tea.
“Clara, I have an offer. Don’t refuse. Come live with me. We’ll take Shadow. I’m alone too—we’ll be less lonely together.”
Clara flustered. “I can’t impose—”
“You won’t. You’ll be family. My mother’s been gone years… I’ve missed having one.”
They talked for hours.
Nearly a year later, Margaret would find Clara already up at dawn, breakfast ready, Shadow fed.
“Love, you’re up too early,” Margaret would chide.
“At my age, sleep’s scarce,” Clara would chuckle, eyes bright.
She called Margaret “my dear,” grateful for the daughter she’d found. As for Valerie? No one heard from her again.
