I let her think it was her decision.

I said we went to the property “just to look.” The second we entered the gate, she beelined for the chubbiest, sleepiest little ball of fur—that was all. First squish love.

She called him Buttons even before we departed the yard.

Trying to make rent stretch, she had no idea I had been sleeping in the car some nights. That the message pinned to our apartment door underlined “final warning.” The pet deposit by itself exceeded my checking balance.

But seeing her that day—barefoot in the grass, smiling with her whole face while Buttons gazed up at her like he already belonged—I couldn’t say no.

I promised the owner we would “come back tomorrow.”

She clutched my hand in the car and said, “He picked me too, Mama.”

I agreed.

But as she dozed down clutching a sock she claimed smelled like Buttons, I realized I had under 24 hours to come up with something.

Since she had previously created room for him in her heart.

And allowing that to be shattered once more… was not a choice.

Over bowls of cereal mostly milk, I attempted to come up with a solution the next morning. Doodling little paw prints all over her notebook, my eight-year-old daughter Tilly sat opposite me. With those expectant eyes, she glanced up every few seconds wondering whether it was time to go fetch Buttons.