Where She Still Lives.

When my mother passed away, she didn’t leave behind a dramatic will or family heirlooms. Just a few boxes—and Emily.

“Emmy,” as my mom affectionately called her, wasn’t her whole world. We were. But Emmy held a special place. She was my mom’s constant companion, her comfort, and her emotional anchor. She entrusted her to me when she was gone.

But Emily has never felt like my dog.

She didn’t come into my life by choice or through a joyful connection. She arrived as a responsibility—a four-legged inheritance—with her own routines, her own quirks, and a stubborn spirit that so closely mirrors my mother’s. She doesn’t come when she’s called, she ignores commands, and she greets every attempt at discipline or training with quiet defiance—the same kind of strength I both admired and wrestled with in my mom.

And, if I’m being honest, some days I resent her for it.

Because the truth is, I don’t love her the way my mother did—not with the same joy, or patience, or softness. And admitting that comes with a lot of guilt.

I care for her. I feed her. I cuddle her. I whisper that I love her. I try. I really do. But I haven’t let her all the way in—and that hurts us both. I know she’s grieving too. I see it in her eyes—those searching, gentle eyes that keep looking for the person who’s no longer here. She misses my mom just as much as I do.

And still, a part of me holds back.

I’m still mourning. Still angry at the universe for taking so much—and handing me something I didn’t ask for. A living reminder of what I’ve lost. A weight I didn’t feel ready to carry.

My mother loved without conditions. She accepted flaws, weathered moods, and stayed present. That kind of love was steady and forgiving.

I’m not there yet.

But I’m trying.

Some days, when Emily leans against me on the sofa or lays her head in my lap like she used to do with my mom, I feel something shift. Not all at once. Not enough to call it peace. But enough to keep going.

We’re both figuring it out—together, whether we mean to or not.

Maybe love isn’t always a lightning bolt. Maybe it’s something slower and more subtle. Maybe it’s a shared ache, a protective bark, or the warmth of a familiar being that won’t leave, even when you try to push it away.

Maybe that’s all it needs to be right now.