“You saved her heart, precious girl,” Dr. Keller says. “Now be strong for her. Let her feel your love so she knows she doesn’t have to be afraid.”
Livy presses her cheek back against Hope’s neck and takes a shaky breath.
“I’m here, Hope,” she whispers. “Mama’s here too. You’re not alone.”
Hope’s ear flicks weakly toward her voice.
And I swear, somehow, that sweet mare knows.
I wrap one arm tighter around my daughter and rest my other hand against Hope’s shoulder.
“We love you, girl,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Dr. Keller waits until Livy’s breathing steadies as much as it can.
Then he gives Hope mercy.
***
“What about this one, Mama?”
I look at the small plot and smile.
“It’s perfect, honey,” I tell her honestly.
We had Hope cremated, and Livy asked if we could use her remains to plant a tree. With a bit of research and permission from the city’s floral team, I told her we could.
Now here we are, standing in the park with a baby tree, a small bag of compost mixed with Hope’s ashes, and my daughter trying so hard to turn grief into something beautiful.
“Why here and not at home?” I ask as I set the young tree down and pull out the compost.
“Because the park needs more trees,” Livy says simply. “And even you said we’re going to move outside the sanctuary one day. I want to be able to visit her whenever I want.”
I did say that.
The house we’re living in now was never meant to be a forever home. It’s wonderful, and it’s been exactly what we needed while I got the sanctuary up and running, but it was built for work. Not for living. Not really.
I need a house closer to Livy’s school. One with a real backyard where she can run and play without me worrying about loose horses, angry protestors, or strangers showing up at our gate with signs and cameras.
Because even though Moore’s Second Chance Sanctuary is a place for horses and other animals to heal, some people still claim what we do is abuse.
They see a thin horse in recovery and assume we caused it.
They see an animal separated from the others and don’t understand quarantine.
They see bandages, special diets, locked stalls, and medical equipment, and decide they know more than the vets who help us keep these animals alive.
I’ve invited those people inside more than once. I’ve shown them the records, introduced them to the animals, explained the treatments, and let them see the work with their own eyes.
A few changed their minds.
Not everyone has.
Just last week, the day after Hope died, someone ran onto my porch and nailed a sign to my front door that said,Tell your kid the truth…animal killer.
Livy saw it before I could take it down.
She didn’t cry.
