The Only Right Choice

**The Only Right Choice**

Margaret Hawthorne was one of those women whose fate could never be called easy. Stern, reserved, with a straight posture and eyes that held lifetimes of loss. At fifty, she lived alone—not by choice, but because life had taken everyone she loved. First, her mother, then her husband, and finally her only son.

The call about her mother’s death came from a neighbor:

*“Maggie, love… your mum’s gone. She went to sleep after lunch and never woke up… I called an ambulance…”*

Margaret sank to the floor. The phone slipped from her hand. She stared blankly, deaf to her own breathing, deaf to the spring rain tapping against the window.

She buried her mother alone. There was no one else. Her father had left when she was eight, leaving only their old cottage and memories behind. Every evening, she still reached for the phone to call… forgetting, again and again, that there was no one left to answer.

Two years passed. Margaret seemed to be finding her footing again. Then fate struck another blow. One evening, an unknown number rang:

*“Mrs. Hawthorne? Please come at once. There’s been an accident. Your husband and son… their documents were found at the scene…”*

What followed was a blur. The morgue. Signatures. Coffins. Emptiness.

*“Lord, how do I go on?”* she whispered in the chapel. *“Show me, even just a hint—why am I still here?”*

The answer didn’t come at once. But one night, waking before dawn, she spotted a stray dog curled on a filthy rag beneath a bench outside.

*“I know what to do,”* she murmured. *“I’ll build a shelter. They’re unwanted too. But I need them. And they’ll need me.”*

Margaret sold her mother’s flat. Filled out stacks of paperwork. Pleaded with sponsors. Found land outside London. And so, *Warm Paws Sanctuary* was born.

She became its heart. Dogs, cats, vets, supplies, repairs—it all filled the void where silence and grief once lived. Helping her was Lily, a young woman who loved animals just as fiercely.

One morning, as Lily unlocked the gates, an elderly woman shuffled in. Silver-haired, hunched, leaning on a cane, clutching a worn handbag. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if drawn by something unseen.

*“Hello, dear,”* she said softly. *“Might I see the dogs?”*

*“Of course,”* Lily smiled.

The woman walked past every pen. Dogs barked, wagged, jumped—each hoping today was their day. But the old woman stayed quiet. She knelt, met their eyes, murmured to them.

Her name was Edith Whitmore. She stopped at one kennel, where a black dog with a white ear sat motionless in the corner, staring at the ground.

*“Who’s this?”*

*“Shadow,”* Lily said. *“Hit by a car last month. Too scared to trust anyone now.”*

*“I’d like to take him,”* Edith said suddenly.

Lily hesitated. The woman was frail, unsteady. Shadow needed patience, care, strength. She promised to consider it.

The next morning, Edith returned. Politely, Lily refused.

*“I’m sorry… we’re concerned for your safety. He’s not an easy dog.”*

*“I understand,”* Edith whispered.

But she came back. Day three. Four. Five. Each time, she sat by Shadow’s kennel, speaking softly. He stayed in his corner. But on the seventh day… he stood. Walked over. Pressed his nose into her palm.

Margaret saw it and *knew*.

*“Take him,”* she said.

Edith wept.

*“I can’t. My daughter’s putting me in a care home. Selling my flat. Three days left. They won’t let me keep him.”*

Margaret’s hands shook. Her chest tightened.

*“How? You’re her *mother*—”*

*“She’s ashamed of me,”* Edith said tiredly. *“Wants my flat’s value.”*

Margaret tried reasoning with Edith’s daughter, but found her in a dim pub—drunk, snarling, unwilling to listen.

She left, clutching her coat to hide her tears.

That night, she didn’t sleep. Tossing, whispering to God, to her dead mother, to herself.

By morning, she’d made her decision.

When Edith arrived, Margaret sat her down, pouring tea.