She doesn’t know yet.
She thinks Max is just “a little extra tired lately,” like I told her last night when she asked why he didn’t chase her tutu down the hallway like he usually does.
He’s thirteen. Old for a golden retriever. Too old, apparently, for the kind of cancer that’s already spread further than we thought. The vet gave us a timeline. Quiet voice. Kind eyes. Two weeks, maybe three. We’re already at the edge of that window.
But my daughter, Leila, still clings to him like he’s staying forever.
She’s been dressing up in her ballet costumes and putting on little shows in the living room just for Max. Says he’s her “most important audience.” And he watches her—still loyal, still gentle—even when his body looks like it’s barely holding itself together.
Today she walked into the kitchen, her hands full of papers, all marked with swirls of crayon. “Look, Mom! I made Max a special ballet program,” she said, beaming. “He’s going to be the star of the show tonight! And you and Dad are the audience!”
I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. How could I tell her? How could I break her heart when she was so blissfully unaware, so convinced that Max would always be there to watch her twirl around in her tutu? I knew the time was coming, but I wasn’t sure I could handle the moment when she realized Max wouldn’t be there for her next show.
“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” I said, my voice trembling slightly as I accepted the paper from her. The picture was a little lopsided, but it didn’t matter. Leila had drawn Max sitting on a chair, front and center, while she danced in front of him. Her love for him was so pure, so innocent, that it made my heart ache even more.
Max, lying on his favorite rug, lifted his head at the sound of her voice, his tail giving a weak wag. His once-glowing fur had dulled, and he moved slower now, but the same spark was still there. He was more than just a pet. He had been her companion since she was a toddler, the one constant in her life. And now, as time slipped away, I felt the weight of knowing I had to let go of both the dog and the person I used to be—the one who could fix everything for her, protect her from the painful parts of life.
Later that evening, as we sat down for dinner, Leila asked me if Max could come with us to the park the next day. “We can have a picnic! And I’ll make sure he has enough snacks to keep him strong,” she said, her voice full of optimism.
I hesitated for a moment, trying to keep the tears from welling up. “Sweetie, Max isn’t feeling well. We’ll still go to the park, but Max might not be able to come with us this time. He needs to rest.”
Leila’s face crumpled for a second, and then she smiled again, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay, Mom. But we can still go together, right?”
“Of course,” I said, my heart heavy. But I knew, deep down, that the next few days would be the hardest we’d ever face.
As I tucked Leila into bed that night, I kissed her forehead, my hands shaking just a little. “Goodnight, darling. Sleep tight. Max will be right here when you wake up.”
She yawned, snuggling into her pillow. “I love Max, Mom,” she whispered.
