“You’re the Bella lady, huh?” he joked one Saturday.
“Guilty,” I laughed. “She’s kind of famous now.”
“Claire’s story… that’s incredible. Are you planning on keeping just her?”
I smiled. “We’ll see.”
Within a few months, I started fostering. My house became a revolving door of wagging tails and muddy paws. I cried every time one got adopted. But I also felt something shift inside me, like the pieces I’d lost after the divorce were coming back together.
Bella watched every foster come and go, always gentle, always patient. Like she understood this was her mission, too.
One night, I sat on the porch, Bella curled beside me, the journal in my lap again. The stars were out, and the wind carried the faint scent of pine.
“I hope you know she’s okay,” I whispered. “She’s better than okay.”
Bella nudged my hand, and I laughed through a lump in my throat.
I don’t know if Claire believed in signs or the afterlife or fate. But I do know this — her love didn’t end in that cabin. It kept moving. Through Bella. Through me.
It’s been over a year now. Bella’s a little grayer around the snout. Slower on our walks. But she’s still here, curled up by my side as I write this.
People say I rescued her. And maybe I did. But the truth is, Bella saved me first.
And because of her and Claire, I found a purpose I never saw coming.