Oliver
Camile walked through the door, her shoulders slumped and her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She looks terrible. I tell her she probably caught something at the animal shelter, but she just rolls her eyes and stalks off.
I’m left standing there holding the squirming puppy like a wounded soldier. When I set him down, he pees on everything. I like the way it feels, the weight of him in my hands. I like the way it makes me feel important, like I’m doing something good. I haven"t stopped sneezing, but at least my eyes only water half the time now. Camile doesn"t even acknowledge my sacrifice. When I mention she should get checked out by a doctor, she slams the door in my face, shuts herself in her room, and gives me the silent treatment.
The quiet time allows me to write Mother a lette
