AM I WRONG FOR WISHING I DIDN’T HAVE TO BE THE STRONG ONE—EVEN FOR HIM?
Today’s Rio’s ampuversary. Three years since they took his front leg and told me they didn’t think he’d make it six months. Three years since I signed off on a surgery I couldn’t afford, begged my credit card for one more mercy swipe, and promised this dog he wasn’t done yet.
And he wasn’t. He’s still here—missing a leg, sure, but full of life. Barking at squirrels with that crooked grin, tail wagging like he’s got four of them.
I made him a sign this morning—bright red letters, cartoon paw prints, the whole thing. “BUTT KICKIN’ CANCER WARRIOR.” Posted the photo online. People flooded the comments with hearts and claps and “you’re both amazing.”
What nobody saw was me sitting on the kitchen floor twenty minutes earlier, staring at the sink full of dishes, overdue bills pinned to the fridge, and the email I couldn’t bring myself to answer.
It was from the job I’ve been chasing since January. They offered me a final interview—in person. Downtown. Tomorrow.
But Rio has a check-up. An important one. The kind where they run the scans. The kind where they tell you if the cancer’s back.
I called the clinic. No reschedules for two weeks.
So I emailed the recruiter and said I couldn’t make it. Family emergency.
She wrote back fast.
“I’m sorry. We need someone who can prioritize the role.”
I stared at the screen. At Rio’s leash hanging by the door. At the framed photo of us from the day after his surgery—me smiling, swollen-eyed, holding him up like he was some kind of trophy.
And for the first time in three years, I whispered something I hadn’t dared admit.
Not to him. Not to myself.
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
And then I broke down.
