“Do you remember the puppy? That’s him.”
“Do you remember me?” she asked. She patted him clumsily, but didn’t move away. From then on—together. She in the armchair, he at her feet. He listens. And she talks.
Now, when I come home, they sit together on the porch. He rests his head on her lap. She pets him and smiles. That’s when I understood. Fyodorovna wasn’t afraid of the dog. She was afraid of letting something into the house that might melt the ice.
And he came in. And stayed.
Do you think—can you forgive someone who once didn’t give you a chance and then needs one?
